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 began to tell me something—and stopped. “A man like that taints a girl by looking at her, by his mere conversation. Anna, why will you persist in this single-handed combat with life?” “Don’t!” she cried. He will have it that I’ve taken leave of my senses. ‘The general himself?’ ‘How shall I get my inheritance if the general will believe that pig?’ ‘Do wish you wouldn’t keep on calling him a pig,’ Martha begged. ‘Precisely.
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