His job as a painter was wearing him down acutely as he aged. Ah Cum explained. It got on my nerves—the women I saw. Sheppard, who had again looked round towards her son, beheld a hand glance along the side of the woollendraper. I burned it. 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. Blueskin might have butchered you and your brat before I'd have lifted a finger to prevent him, if it hadn't suited my purposes to do so, and he hadn't incurred my displeasure.
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