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"Vill this do?" demanded the constable, taking the candle from the lantern, the better to display the narrow limits of the hole. 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. "I didn't carry you off from old Wood to kill you, but to wed you. I was sure you could not have the heart to slay a child—an innocent child. But it is that I have a very bad temper, you understand. You have to marry me. Lucy propped Michelle against a thick, knobby tree stump. Her girl Clarice was next, dying within a single day, blood leaking from her pretty brown eyes like an image of the Blessed Virgin.
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