She read beautifully because the fixed form of the poem signified nothing. ” “It certainly was,” she admitted. 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. Their momentary absence seemed to have worked wonders; for now the most perfect understanding appeared to subsist between them.
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