Before the Monroes I was placed with a single woman, Leslie Cavendish. They are not your children, they never were. 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 all that could be ascertained in the village was, that a man had ridden off a short time before in the direction of London. Was this the right moment? After what she had said about Jarvis Remenham’s habits, he could do with more information before he revealed his purpose. He pulled her from him to kiss her on the mouth and paused, looking into her face.
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