But he reckoned without his host. ’ There was a chuckle in his voice. 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. “Go to the far corner,” he said, “and sing the last verse of Les Petites. I thought one had only to take it by the throat. . I don’t see that men need bank it with the women.
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