I know all about it. Wood was unable to discover the figure of the widow, but he recognised her dry, hacking cough, and was about to call her down, if she could not find the key, as he imagined must be the case, when a loud noise was heard, as though a chest, or some weighty substance, had fallen upon the floor. If I were Mr. He returned, \"Can I walk you home then?\" She was completely taken aback and did her best not to show it. Through all this flutter of novelty there came and went a solicitous, preoccupied, almost depressed figure. 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. “It’s a matter of feeling with me. Moving back to the corner again, she ran a hand back over the leather-bound books—which, she realised, were not books at all. Lest the carpenter should be taxed with too much uxoriousness, it behoves us to ascertain whether the personal attractions of his helpmate would, in any degree, justify the devotion he displayed. And in those days, too, he used to help her mother with her gardening, and hover about her while she stood on the ladder and hammered creepers to the scullery wall. Remember, if there's anything you'd like to get off your chest, doctors and priests are in the same boat. ‘But I have been perfectly honest about that.
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