Pottiswick had mentioned muttering. She was silent, the ghost of a fading smile passed from her lips. 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 have been very foolish, but it is over. " "All right.
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