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. But what can we do? Here am I, fixed to respectability and this laboratory; you’re living at home. ‘Do not tell me he has escaped. “I am going to ignore it. .
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