She donned her gloves. As they careened into a parking space, Lucy clung to the upholstery so as not to be thrown against the front seats. 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. You feel that that smile is for you, the words are for you, the whole song is for you. "Stop!" groaned Blueskin. The road which wound by Westbourne Green, gave him a full view of the hill of Hampstead with its church, its crest of houses, and its villas peeping from out the trees.
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