“My word holds,” she said. 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. He screamed in pain, doubling over with a howl as she stumbled out of the bed. The man had favoured him with a brief nod, but the girl had gone so far as to offer a tiny smile, and a look under her lashes with which not even Gerald, for all his scant interest in female society, could fail to be familiar. Each manuscript was like the other: the same lovely treatment of an unlovely subject. But from the rest—you saved me. He strangled the infant, which slipped out of his hands and screamed.
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