The pleasure intensified quickly, it was as much control as she dared to lose as she heard herself calling his name with all her breath. The lace was family lace, easily recognizable. 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. . ’ She halted, her pistol still held firm and straight, both hands gripping it, her expressive features at once determined and uncertain. Kneebone and his Friends.
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