I can’t even make myself care. And always they were well satisfied. "Who are you?" inquired Mrs. 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. “But, dear, think! He is your father. I’ve had it, Sheila. She was very pale, and there was a look of fear in her eyes.
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