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. He turned, and beheld Winifred. I do not say guest because that suggests friendship; and I am no friend of this Wastrel. But I know a little place where we’ll get a little quiet talk. Nevertheless there came a residuum of expostulations.
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