Then she examined with curiosity some knick-knacks upon a small round table by her side. There’s no sense in morality, I suppose, unless you are fundamentally immoral. 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. There was nothing to replace the all important letter from her father. Ann Veronica decided she would have to go on with Capes another day, and, looking up, discovered him sitting on a stool with his hands in his pockets and his head a little on one side, regarding her with a thoughtful expression. Everything was going to hell. "Sir!" exclaimed Winifred, rising.
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