She was the first to hear another car approaching from the street, an odd occurrence in an elementary school lot that had been abandoned for the weekend. “I must explain to her. 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. “We settled long ago—we’re hard stuff.
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