‘There was a priest, the father confessor, you understand. Wood, who were, furthermore, engaged in a little conjugal tête-à-tête of their own. 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. Aunt Jane had her quiet moments. ’ Baring his teeth in a smile of triumph that was every bit an animal snarl, and leaping up onto the seat of the pew he was in, he jumped hazardously to the next. I'll be quiet.
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