"It's a miserable weakness to be afraid of bloodshed. ’ ‘No, sister, I know that, but—’ ‘You needn’t tell me. I heard from David about you only this morning. " "It is, indeed," replied Mrs. Slowly Prudence Sindlesham nodded her head, her eyes never leaving his face. Good night. But we’ve got the brains to get over that, and tongues in our heads to talk to each other. 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.
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