She had seen for herself right up in the bedroom window with her binoculars when Joanie was gone shopping one night, right with her own eyes. 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 think as I feel in a good humour it must be the latter.
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