"When in France, I heard from the Marshal that his brother had perished in London on the night of the Great Storm. 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. To compare me to a starving pig. ” “No doubt. . I change them in the morning at Cannon Street, and take my book as I come down.
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