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. The effort to maintain her self-control was almost superhuman. She cursed herself for a fool. Voting wouldn’t do no ‘arm to ‘er. ’ ‘And why are you not married,’ she demanded suddenly, ‘if it is that you have land?’ Gerald grimaced. "Yesh," replied Abraham. ‘Would it so? What sort of a girl is she, then?’ ‘She’s a consummate devil,’ Gerald declared roundly. Eh bien, she must use her tongue against him.
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