It's mighty lonesome down there for a man bred to cities. Maggot. It struck his forehead, splitting it, and brought him to his knees. 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. “You have them both,” Anna answered. Unless—’ Something clicked in his mind and he stared at his friend without seeing him.
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