Two souls in travail; one inspired by fresh hopes, the other, by fresh despairs. She had never had a real doll. 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. Their conversation degenerated again and again into a strain of self-congratulation that would have irked an eavesdropper. “I thought I saw her in town to-day,” he said.
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