She twisted her fingers tightly. 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. Ann Veronica sat back in an attitude of inattention, her eyes on a distant game of cricket, her mind perplexed and busy. You denied it, remembering that I had called myself Anna. For the first time, Melusine heartily regretted her rejection of the major’s services. “Lucy Albert, sir.
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