Her husband had caught her leaning over a precipice into the ruins of the oubliette, and had punished her by flogging her back with a switch. 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. Wood. “It is the first moment we have let him out of our sight,” Brendon exclaimed, as he hastened across the street. Keep his arms down. ‘What is the matter?’ ‘Is there nothing you do not know?’ she asked faintly. She did not remember him, but he said that he had introduced himself to her when she was visiting the butcher's family.
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