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Lucy looked about confusedly. These were yarns! As he was about to slip the manuscripts into the envelope, something caught his eye: by Howard Spurlock. John picked it up and put it in her hands. Single pearls— Lord knows where they come from!—are always turning up, some of them of fine lustre; but I never set eyes on them. “Hola Marteen!” She exclaimed cheerfully. Marvel, who proceeded to the cart, and took his seat upon the coffin. 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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