Walking to the station with him. She would look up, shake her head, and then go back to her reading or crewelwork. She did not remember how many seasons it took before she relented, how much time before she decided to toy with his affections. 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. I do not believe that there has ever lived a really great actress whose moral character from the ordinary point of view would bear inspection. What had she so nearly said? She had almost spoken a name—and quickly withdrawn it.
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