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’ ‘Dieu du ciel,’ burst from mademoiselle as she jumped up. But threats and entreaties—even promises were ineffectual; and the unlucky captive, after exhausting his powers of persuasion, was compelled to give up the point. 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. I didn’t think—I don’t know what I thought.
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This video was uploaded to waterscolumns.info on 29-09-2024 13:36:52