The man, who was just able to move, pointed towards Giltspur-street. 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 seemed to have no idea whatever of the emotional states that were becoming to her age and position. Anna, why will you persist in this single-handed combat with life?” “Don’t!” she cried.
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