‘Now, madame, tell me all about your life in France. To settle things, you know. 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. “Please call me Carol. His hands came up, his face broke apart. . . ‘I kissed you once, didn’t I?’ Her pulses jumped and she stared. " The stranger smiled incredulously.
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