That night she found a ship bound to sail for the heathen nation called America. From the threshold she looked her accuser steadily and coldly in the face. He looked at his port wine as though that tawny ruby contained the solution of the matter. 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. Be so good as to let me pass, sir,” she added, looking her obstructor steadily in the face. Not then. Too easily roused emotions and too little passion. The assemblage was for the most part, if not altogether, composed of persons to whom vice in all its aspects was too familiar to present much of novelty, in whatever form it was exhibited.
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