She was almost tempted to tell him, if only to see the cracks of surprise and incredulity break the immobility of his yellow countenance. “There was an accident with a pistol in Miss Pellissier’s room,” he said. But you—you have a good face. 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. CHAPTER XX.
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