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. txt or 15614-8. Please don’t tell anyone, mister. Not Trodger. "You must have travelled a good deal to know so much about men. ‘How do you do? I am so happy to meet you. “You needn’t be worried,” she said quietly.
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