“It was great, Shari!” She replied the stars still in her eyes. 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. “You have changed somehow—and you certainly are less friendly. I think that I will tell you. "I will not submit to be thus interrogated," said Winifred, angrily. Figg! In a few minutes, all will be over.
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