“My husband knows all. 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. I want to make you feel that here is a place where the crowd does not clamor nor ill-winds blow. He’s out in Phoenix last I heard. E. Before midnight, I'll answer for it, it shall be done.
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