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. Then he sat down again in a chair and said that people who wrote novels ought to be strung up. I walked London till the soles of my shoes were worn through, and my toes were blistered. Your name.
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