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. You are utterly baffling. Worse than any man. She occupied a small sofa, a little apart, a ruddy-complexioned gentleman some years her senior beside her, and glanced about with an air of considerable unease. As she talked, the drift and significance of what she was saying shaped itself slowly to Ann Veronica’s apprehension.
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This video was uploaded to live-sport.live on 19-05-2024 16:04:51
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