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. Ruth was not a woman; she was a phenomenon. So appalling was the sight, that even the murderers—familiar as they were with scenes of slaughter,—looked aghast at it.
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