Both girls looked pale and listless. 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. "My servants, like Eastern mutes, must have eyes, and ears,— and hands, if need be,—but no tongues. And then at the street corner she came face to face with Nigel Ennison.
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