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. "Do you compare your love—a love which all may purchase—with hers? No one has ever loved me. ” She leaned against the back wall of the place, sinking slowly. “Yes,” she said at last, “it is firm and affectionate. ‘I think you know my affianced husband. She doesn't love you; she hasn't the least idea what it means beyond what she has read in novels. "Shall I take the babby home with me!" persisted Wood, in a tone between jest and earnest. She could have traded it for gold nuggets and lived like a queen for a few weeks, but she did not.
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