When Mr. They even talked about friendship. And pouring the contents of a small powderflask into a bumper of brandy, he tendered him the mixture. She was dressed in a tattered black stuff gown, discoloured by various stains, and intended, it would seem, from the remnants of rusty crape with which it was here and there tricked out, to represent the garb of widowhood, and held in her arms a sleeping infant, swathed in the folds of a linsey-woolsey shawl. She was taken dreadfully ill on the road, with spasms and short breath, and swoonings,—worse than ever she was before. “Oh! please don’t lose yourself in a wilderness of secondary considerations,” she said.
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