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. Her foster father had been outside for most of the morning, working on trimming the maple trees and mowing the lawn. In my search after strange characters, Mr. So I made haste and recovered.
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