" "Sir Rowland is my brother," resumed Lady Trafford coldly. " "Ha!" ejaculated the other. 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. Michelle's home was one of the smaller palaces, made solidly of red brick with charming black shutters and window boxes full of drooping violets. The doctor paced the room half a dozen times. Speaking of mean, you watch out for Kate Bitchster. Lucy did her best to avoid talking about it, but the subject was beguiling, as it almost always brought news about him from the grapevine within which Michelle was intravenously entwined.
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