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. She wedged the towel between her legs. Will you not, brother?" "Promise," said a deep voice in Trenchard's ear. Returning to Mrs Sindlesham’s chair, he held up the miniature so the face depicted there was turned towards the old lady. Well, I don't blame you on that ground. . ‘You won’t get a thing out of her. She always dawdled, so it was easy.
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