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 fled. “What I am after is that beauty isn’t a special inserted sort of thing; that’s my idea. “I want a plain word with you about all this. . Don't you see Mr.
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