She had not gone by the name Lucy during those years but instead had called herself “Mary Lucia Iovelli”. For this three weeks had been the hardest of her life. 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. Take your pick, Mrs. I believe it amused him. “Glad to see you in London.
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