She wanted to know. ” Mr. “Life is upsetting enough, without the novels taking a share,” said Mr. "A bad girl?" She put the question as she would have put any question—leveleyed and level-toned. Nothing else was put in their place, and they remained sotto voce, as it were, in his mind. 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. She cut a deep gash into her own arm with a steel screw, loosing drops of her own blood onto the floorboards.
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