I want to get away—to go to London. Twelve years ago! It is an awful retrospect. 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. "He's dead," exclaimed Austin. The policy of this step was immediately apparent. First, I went to Country Tom's, the Goat, in Long Lane. You wish another name? Eh bien.
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