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. "I'm sorry, Mr. ” “We’ll all go second,” said Ramage, “if we may?” Mr. She wondered if the second part would overcome his objections? Several times the words had rushed to her tongue, to find her tongue paralysed. ‘Yes, th-there it is,’ she uttered, stumbling a little over the words. As a sex you’re a little under-trained—in affairs. Stanley as they drew alongside, to account for his own ruffled and heated expression. What else could one say? I left him to suppose—a registry perhaps.
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