There, hanging among Ann Veronica’s more normal clothing, was a skimpy dress of red canvas, trimmed with cheap and tawdry braid, and short—it could hardly reach below the knee. Mrs. No, don’t let me call myself that. The stranger started at the touch, and spoke. In the beginning was afraid; but after the first several cases, I had only pity. 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. She could not look at him through an interval that seemed to her a vast gulf of time. "Begone! or I fire!" he cried. “It is very doubtful,” he said. Oh, cuss it!” “Eh?” “He said I would. He was certain that those lips of hers had never known the natural and pardonable simper of youth. ‘Seems to me, missie, as you’re as dangerous a female as I’m like to see. ‘I trust you were not altogether disgusted when I kissed you.
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