The last of Jarvis’s harlots must have departed in a hurry, for she had apparently left a roomful of clothes. You should go home today and get some rest. 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.
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