She went from period to period exactly as she would have read prose; so that sense and music were equally balanced. ‘It was your son who left the place empty then?’ he asked. Gold-handled, too. 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.
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