"What's your name?" he said, addressing the audacious lad, who was looking about him as coolly as if nothing material was going on. “Forgive me,” he said, “but I want to hear it from your sister. They were alike in one phase—loveless and lonely. 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. “Beasts!” But Miss Miniver took no notice of his admission.
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