“You’re not a virgin, are you?” It was as much an accusation as a question. Even though the individual faces of her audience were not to be singled out, she had been conscious from the first moment of her appearance that something was wrong. 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. "It was that song that put it into my head to cut my name on the beam. Though Gerald must suppose it was inevitable she should eventually come here. “No thanks.
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