A father is in debt, we'll say. He knew she was out there, he could feel it. “Accident! She shot me,” he muttered. His two wives have been here. He probably imagines himself to be a thousand times worse off than he actually is. 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. Some of their specimens—wonderfully selected, wonderfully got up. John was acutely focused upon her now, just as she had wanted him to be.
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