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. Besides, the sun had gone in and it looked like rain. "These people are all in league with him," cried the latter. Do you know how late it is?” She nodded.
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