She shut her lips hard, her jaw hardened, and she set herself to struggle with him. 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. All she had found was the love of this dog. “I don’t know much about the technique of music,” he said at last, with his eyes upon her.
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