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. White. ‘Couldn’t even trouble to make a pretence of motherhood. A fire enveloped her, a fire which was strangely healing, filling her heart with warmth, blotting out the menace of the world. Crack went the whip, and away floundered the heavy vehicle through the deep ruts of the ill-kept road, or rather lane, (for it was little better,) which, then, led across Southampton Fields. We’ll go. You sing better than Annabel ever did, you have even a better style. We've got to make him take up the harp of life and go twanging it again.
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This video was uploaded to brazilianportuguese.biz on 15-05-2024 09:40:26
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