“Mr. I say, I'll take the yarn over and read it to McClintock. ‘And I am delighted to see that you are ready to admit that the Charvills—or rather the Valades—are indeed your affair. ” He adjusted his glasses on his nose. 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. A marriage in the house proved to be exciting but extremely disorganizing. Supposing that was it; at least, a solution to part of this amazing riddle? Supposing her father had made her assist him in the care of the derelicts solely to fill her with loathing and abhorrence for mankind? "Didn't you despise the men your father brought home—the beachcombers?" "No. ” “I will buy books and a lay figure,” he declared, “to practise upon.
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