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 slow stars circled on to the moment of their meeting. And you think I would marry you?’ ‘Why not? I am unworthy, eh? Because I am a servant. Among the commercial enticements McClintock found a real letter.
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