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. It was past seven when she got back to her hotel. I didn’t go out of my way or anything. You will certainly be compromised. She was interested by the swearing of the witnesses. “I shouldn’t have waited,” she said. We shall have a reg'lar squall afore we gets across. She walked down the station approach, past the neat, obtrusive offices of the coal merchant and the house agent, and so to the wicket-gate by the butcher’s shop that led to the field path to her home. Why, he can scarcely be twenty. “It was not necessary,” Sir John answered stiffly.
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