" The spinster had no retort to offer such directness. 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. Go on. “I want to ask you a question,” she said abruptly. . Her mother had died when she was thirteen, her two much older sisters had married off—one submissively, one insubordinately; her two brothers had gone out into the world well ahead of her, and so she had made what she could of her father. I know there’s a sort of right in your impatience at the slowness of Progress. The doctor had sown a seed, carelessly.
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