I didn’t think—I don’t know what I thought. "Whose child can this be?" "How the devil should I know!" replied Jonathan gruffly. . Ann Veronica’s desire to laugh unrestrainedly was checked by the tremendous earnestness of his expression. His room was last at the end of one winding corner. It was Annabel who spoke. 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.
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