Unless women are never to be free, never to be even respected, there must be a generation of martyrs. 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. ” Mr. ” She whispered. If we were to wait till a prig was rightfully nabbed, we might tarry till doomsday.
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