I’ve seen Brewis Charvill, by the by. “It’s very good,” she said. Her eyes were lit with a gleam of humour. We aren’t worth it. The way—the way we are led on! We are taught to believe we are free in the world, to think we are queens. 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.
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