\"Where have you been, young lady?\" Mike crooned, a large grin on his fat Irish face. And my wife won’t live with me for reasons that I think most women would consider sound. He was into the passage in time to see her slip into another chamber at the end. This lifeless appearance was heightened by the extreme sharpness of her features—especially the nose and chin,—and by the emaciation of her limbs, which was painfully distinct through her drapery. 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. The effort to maintain her self-control was almost superhuman.
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