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“What are you doing?” he asked. 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. McClintock could not browbeat him, storm as he might.
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This video was uploaded to waterscolumns.info on 30-09-2024 10:28:00