“Yes?” he said. 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. Hogarth, didn't I see you last night at the ridotto with Lady Thornhill and her pretty daughter?" "Me!—no, Sir," stammered Hogarth, colouring. It was painted in the early seventeenth century by a minor artist named DuPre. Papa doesn't even care, but he just goes along with whatever my Mom says. A beachcomber in embryo, and she had lent a hand through habit as much as through pity.
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