He first met her when he had caught her smoking behind the Joliet LaudrO-Matic one cool overcast day in late August. 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. “Yeah, but I have two brothers. Men do not understand constancy as women do.
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