She walked through the office to the door, aimlessly. He stared at her stupidly, forgetting to guard against the tactics he had come to expect from her. 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. I’ve got too much work.
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