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. “Will you be moral and your species, or immoral and yourself? We’ve decided to be immoral. Except for the dull eyes and the extreme pallor of his face, there was nothing else to indicate that he was deep in liquor.
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