I’m not half smart enough for the West End. A scene now ensued, highly characteristic of the age, and the occasion. 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. But then he began to take steps, and, at last, strides to something more and more like predominance. He cherished her. At least, I frustrated her design in calling upon him this morning.
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This video was uploaded to adiszena.com on 10-06-2024 16:36:00
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