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 head rose. But you had better know the truth to start with. ” Lucy wanted badly to believe her. Oh God! pardon me. ” “My Mom complains that she’s tired all the time. 1 with active links or immediate access to the full terms of the Project Gutenberg-tm License.
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