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. And she felt that if she went home it was imperative to pay. The birds were singing blithely amid the trees,—the lowing of the cows resounded from the yard,—a delicious perfume from the garden was wafted through the open window,—at a distance, the church-bells of Willesden were heard tolling for evening service. Could she understand what she was talking about? Luckily it was a second-class carriage and the ordinary fellowtravellers were not there. “I have the right of the man who loves you,” he declared. Will you take it in to him?” The young man smiled in a superior manner. Wood, I forget nothing. There, that sounds frightfully involved, doesn’t it, but perhaps you can make out what I mean.
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This video was uploaded to waterscolumns.info on 30-09-2024 00:29:02