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. "Continue the proceedings. “I feel quite sure that Mrs. Infested by every description of vagabond and miscreant, it was, perhaps, a few degrees worse than the rookery near Saint Giles's and the desperate neighbourhood of Saffron Hill in our own time. She could think of nothing more to say. ‘I can’t do that. Her eyes were fixed upon the ground, the pink colour coming and going in her cheeks was very delicate and girlish. “Absolutely,” the doctor answered, “and the sooner the better. If there is, it’s a mere wrapping—there’s better underneath. Flattened flowers aren’t for the likes of us.
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