Mrs. He walked her home. 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. ‘Go on, Gerald. She turned about, and was persecuted by visions, half memories, half dreams, of Ramage. For the rest, she derived her ideas of the married state from the observed behavior of married women, which impressed her in Morningside Park as being tied and dull and inelastic in comparison with the life of the young, and from a remarkably various reading among books. Water poured into her eyes, nose, and mouth in a torrent from which she had to turn and wheeze. “Of course. They cannot imagine the discomforts involved, and they see only mystery in your fight to recover your lost heritage.
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