They thought that she was her own mother. In other respects, they were equally indecorous and offensive. 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. Anyhow, they didn’t run about so much. Ann Veronica said she didn’t care. ‘I told you I could handle her. She spoke slowly. The imbecile. "Whatever you say—you, behind those stars there, if you are a God. In the end, resolution triumphed, as it was sure to do, over the weaker emotions, and he laughed at his fears.
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