There’s that old gentleman at the end of the table—Bullding his name is. Something as yet unformulated within her kept her estranged from all these practical aspects of her beliefs. 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 listen, John. She had imagined that prisons were white-tiled places, reeking of lime-wash and immaculately sanitary.
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