” He said. 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 of Gosse, whom those soldiers had allowed to escape? Hiding—or perhaps gone. “What are you doing?” he asked. He wrote poems to her beauty that he recited from a seemingly infinite memory.
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