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. "Is she alive?" "She is not," replied Trenchard, overcome by conflicting emotions, and unable to endure the boy's agonized look. “I have waited for this,” he said, and stood quite still, looking at her until the silence became oppressive.
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This video was uploaded to waterscolumns.info on 20-09-2024 02:14:20
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