“Mr. I thought that he was dead. Then she looked at her aunt, and traced with a curious eye the careful arrangement of her hair, her sharp nose, the little drooping lines of mouth and chin and cheek. He scratched his upper lip reflectively. 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. " "Wrong? What the devil could be wrong?" McClintock had demanded, irascibly. Gerald’s thoughts raced as he reached out supporting hands and murmured meaningless phrases to soothe. My nerves are shaken.
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