“I’ve got it. 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. We married, and for a time we were happy. Only in her eyes there seemed to be some apprehension of the fact that the young man’s clothes and manners were alike undesirable things. She wanted to stay where she was; but tears were dangerous; the more she wept, the weaker she would become defensively. It's of no use. ‘What would you do in Valade’s place?’ ‘You mean, knowing that the girl was here and liable to queer my pitch?’ ‘Precisely.
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