CHAPTER VIII. He was disquieted. 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. Five hours later she tiptoed down the hall and paused at the threshold of what they now called his study. She hated living like that. She felt like a dried-up old woman. Splendidly. " Sir Rowland's brow darkened.
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