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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. ‘No, my poor guardian,’ Gerald mocked. Chapter XXVIII THE HISSING OF “ALCIDE” There was a strange and ominous murmur of voices, a shuffling of feet in the gallery, a silence, which was like the silence before a storm. A vein of conviction mingled with his burlesque. If she had once known him, if he were some former neighbour, it would be comprehensible. But now it’s beads by the cask—like the hold of a West African trader. He found himself thinking up all the psychology which he had ever read.
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