“Either I want to shout,” said Mr. 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. But Ann Veronica had still to get to her chief topic. He's as generous as he's frolicsome. Before he could make the thrust, however, he was seized behind by Ireton, who flung himself upon him.
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