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. Do you want me, too?” “Yes,” she whispered foolishly, in the throes of rapture. And this idiot, he has threatened to arrest me and make them take me to prison.
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