In the rush of commuters he did not see her boarding his train. “WHAT a place! “Stuffy isn’t the word for it. 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. What else could one say? I left him to suppose—a registry perhaps.
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