He felt her warm breath upon his cheek, the perfume of her hair as she leaned over him. 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. “Frightful lot of things aren’t settled,” said Ann Veronica.
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