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. “So you’re the one my son has been talking about. I did not have to dig deep in my imagination to create the status-obsessed suburban environment of Lucy’s modern milieu. When sentence was passed there wasn't a dry eye in the court. She answered him almost coldly. \" Lucy replied, truly amazed.
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