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 cannot say more. "You are the son of Sir Montacute Trenchard, of Ashton-Hall, near Manchester. "How would you like a job on a copra plantation?" he asked, irrelevantly to the thoughts crowding one another in his mind. Everywhere I went and rapped at a door I found behind it another dreadful dingy woman—another fallen queen, I suppose— dingier than the last, dirty, you know, in grain. “The bravest of us have joints in our armour.
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