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. He tried to make love to me. I am determined to fight my own little battle with the world —there must be a place for me somewhere, and I mean to find it. ’ ‘Certainly he is not a friend,’ Melusine agreed, ‘but he has gone, after all.
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