wincey

This morning when I left the asylum I felt so ashamed because I had to wear this horrid old wincey dress.

A merchant in Hopeton last winter donated three hundred yards of wincey to the asylum.

Her gypsy blood began to stir in her: the charm of her old vagabond habits asserted itself under the wincey frock and clean apron.

I have six bolls of meal and seven yards of wincey going up the glen in the Salachary cart.