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. ‘You do not believe me?’ ‘I do not. “Dear husband,” she murmured. He had deliberately saved it for last. I leaned over and looked at him—he was quite still.
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