5. ” “For a little time,” she answered. Prudence attacked her chicken wing. Cast off this weakness. “There ought to be a Censorship of Books. Spurlock sat limply, his arms hanging. 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. He was a business man, pure and simple, his eyes were fastened always upon the practical side of life. Only it was with a further and most unbelieving shrug of the shoulders that he resumed his seat.
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