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. I am grateful, indeed I am. Melusine—the real Melusine—would never have made such a stupid mistake. ‘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. They sat on a wooden bench that overlooked the less aromatic part of the lake, deeper and not as frequented by geese. She shrank from him as he gripped her hand more forcibly.
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