Her long incarceration at the convent in Blaye had taught her to be dismissive of her own appearance. Yes, I think we have thoroughly thrashed that one out. Occasionally he relit his pipe. 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. The novel danger of the situation enthralled him. “Alice—Alice gone dotty, and all over kids. I bring you tidings of an old friend.
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