One Friday afternoon, in this pleasant month, it chanced that Mr. 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. Wait a little; rest. ” “That’s rather the theory now,” said Ann Veronica. That’s really what I want to discuss. I don't threaten idly, as you know.
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