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. “Life—things—I don’t think her prospects now—Hopeful outlook. You’ve placed me in a very exceptional position, Miss Stanley. "You must take it to Sir Rowland Trenchard's in Southampton Fields. Her shoulders were gripped hard and a familiar voice spoke.
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