What you want to do is to imagine every woman a Becky Sharp and every man a Rawdon Crawley. In fact, one of them was downright sceptical. 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.
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