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. But she perceived that to tell Manning of her Ramage adventures as they had happened would be like tarring figures upon a water-color. " "Pity!" shrieked the widow. He feared to antagonize that distinguished person. “Don’t be an ass, Ferringhall,” he said tersely.
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