Her motherly features creased into anxious wrinkles. ‘I do not understand you. And not a worthy tome in sight. And now you must go back, take up your work and think all this over. . 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. Don't be alarmed by their manners, Mr. She thought of how tired she was, how exhausted, how hungry.
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