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. Filled as he was with conflicting emotions, any stretch of silence would be dangerous. ‘Exactly like my father. I didn’t know. I MUST pay off that forty pounds. Recognising the handwriting, he glanced swiftly at the signature, and uttering an explosive curse, cast the paper from him. There is no further hope. But, finding the cellar-door open, concluded he had got out that way. The likeness was ridiculous.
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