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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. "Heaven be praised she knows me at last. Fancy, as they say hereabouts!" What had aroused this open-air monologue was a small tin sign in a window. I might have told you the truth.
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This video was uploaded to southwestbyways.info on 20-09-2024 22:43:58