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. "Nor any one else, I suspect," answered Ireton, winking significantly. Instantly seizing it, the young man placed it in the carriage, shut the door, and commanded his servants to drive off. Anna sprang to her feet with a startled cry. “When one is happy—I don’t like to think of them. ‘A word, if you please, my friend. She is called Madame Ibstock, you understand.
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