"He is," returned Quilt, significantly. 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. He looked like an animated skeleton that someone had hung a smelly 105 brown beard upon. ’ He gave the gaping Pottiswick a shove, passing him on to his junior, who was waiting patiently by the kitchen door.
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