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. My politics in that matter wouldn’t be to give women votes. *** Madame la Comtesse de St Erme regarded the English major with a lacklustre eye, Gerald thought. But this chap is good wine yet. ’ Gerald raised his brows.
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