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. She’ll have to wait for dinner,” he said, uncomfortably. Is all that folly done with—for ever?” Annabel shivered ever so slightly. My very sentences stumble and give way. I was not even sure whether it was loaded. Spurlock began to munch his water-chestnuts.
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