The more haste, the worse speed—better the feet slip than the tongue. Coolly and gingerly, she kissed it as it stood at its hard angle from his body. 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 certainly didn’t mean to kiss you. I had already won wars and sailed ships to distant lands by the time I was thirty.
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