Or was that perhaps because his business in Piccadilly the other day had gone awry? Perhaps Brewis Charvill had not welcomed him with open arms. She exhorted Ann Veronica not to become one of “those unsexed intellectuals, neither man nor woman. 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. The nun on the threshold was of middle age and heavily built, her back uneven from toil and her hands roughened. Earles,” she exclaimed.
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