"Nobody composes any more, nobody paints, nobody writes—I mean, on a par with what we've just heard. 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. “Neither Sydney nor I would think of such a thing. I'm about to leave this country for ever. You have told me that you cared. ’ He threw a fulminating glance at Gerald.
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