"See the devil!—not I," cried Wood impatiently. 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. Henry Clay, thirteen cents in Hong-Kong and two-bits in that dear old New York. Its very calmness was frightful. Bounding the corner of a garden wall, he came upon his former place of imprisonment.
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