Manning, in his entirely different dialect, indorsed her brother Roddy’s view of things. 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. “I wish they did,” he said, “but they don’t. I want to get away—to go to London. He did not move. CHAPTER X Ah Cum was himself puzzled. I don’t want you to talk to me now.
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