“Then assuredly!” said Manning. 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. Can I be accommodated with a seat, Mr. Only her ungloved fingers, and the arms in their long tight sleeves as she held the heavy gun aloft, bore any sign of stiffness. Yes, yes, there is no doubt about it. ‘Will you stop hedging? I’m hanged if I go on with this ridiculous cat and mouse game.
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