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’m glad you’re back for all sorts of reasons. It was finished by the end of that year, each character having asserted itself pronouncedly in my imagination. Of course Ruth was not aware that in this same volume there were lyrics known the world over. "It is addressed to my mother," he added, as his eye glanced rapidly over it, "and by my father. Only I wish—I wish to-day I was a thousand times, ten thousand times more beautiful. The above description of —the great Figg, by the prize-fighting swains Sole monarch acknowledged of Mary'bone plains— may sound somewhat tame by the side of the glowing account given of him by his gallant biographer, who asserts that "there was a majesty shone in his countenance, and blazed in his actions, beyond all I ever saw;" but it may, possibly, convey a more accurate notion of his personal appearance. It was not a cambric curtain Ruth had drawn across that part of her life: it was of iron. Immediately a feathered hat emerged, under which a familiar countenance was visible. But, egad! I believe he will.
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