“I don’t think you realize,” Ann Veronica began again, “that I am rather a defective human being. Lights glimmered in the windows of the different houses; and a lamp-lighter was running from post to post on his way to Snow Hill. And now I break the seals—for you. 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.
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