I saw her come out from the flat buildings two minutes before we entered it last night. The echoes of his hard, unpleasant laugh reached Anna on her way upstairs. 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. It would be the wrappered world almost at its best. She saw his lips yell, “Stop. ’ ‘Don’t call me by name,’ she snapped. You need have no apprehensions about him, Sir Rowland.
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