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 am done, Gérard. Who is she, I say?” “My sister!” Annabel faltered. “I can tell you are thinking about it. What had Brewis Charvill to say to that, Gerald?’ ‘He had nothing to say to it.
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