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 wasn’t. I should feel that I had been obliged to find some one else to fight my battles for me. Take your case, for instance.
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This video was uploaded to ssibasmatirice.com on 19-05-2024 23:09:57
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