“I mean to go to prison directly the session is over,” said Miss Klegg. 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. That register would be easy to get at; comforting thought. ‘After all the threats you’ve made, that is hardly fair. ’ Melusine shifted her shoulders.
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