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. Inquiring for Mrs. Where the devil have you hidden all those weapons? Don’t tell me you’ve got ’em with you. Your second turn is not over, is it?” She laughed a little hardly. He fondled her naked breasts with his fingers, then his mouth. But days had now passed. She imagined descending the stairs, hearing Mike’s uproarious laughter as she peeked around a vacant corner with a lump in her throat.
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