"'
Tom Shoesmith threw back his head and half shut his eyes.
'Eh, me!' he said. 'She was a fine, valiant woman, the
Widow Whitgift. She stood twistin' the eends of her long
hair over her fingers, an' she shook like a poplar, makin'
up her mind. The Pharisees all about they hushed their
children from cryin' an' they waited dumb-still. She was
all their dependence. 'Thout her Leave an' Good-will
they could not pass; for she was the Mother. So she shook
like a aps-tree makin' up her mind. 'Last she drives the
word past her teeth, an' "Go!" she says. "Go with my
Leave an' Goodwill."
'Then I saw - then, they say, she had to brace back
same as if she was wadin' in tide-water; for the Pharisees
just about flowed past her - down the beach to the boat, I
dunnamany of 'em - with their wives an' childern an'
valooables, all escapin' out of cruel Old England. Silver
you could hear chinkin', an' liddle bundles hove down
dunt on the bottom-boards, an' passels o' liddle swords
an' shields raklin', an' liddle fingers an' toes scratchin' on
the boatside to board her when the two sons pushed her
off.
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