“Could you play ‘Fiddler on the Roof’?” father Thomas pleaded. You shall know the truth. Balanced on his nose were enormous tortoise-shell spectacles. It struck the major that she was very young. 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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