"Sir!" exclaimed Winifred, rising. We middle-aged fools and we old fools can no longer dream. didn’t have to. One cannot trust any man at all. Indignation carried her through that night, that men and the world could so entreat her. Panting with effort, she held her point menacingly at Gosse’s chest. The hard work will be his, until we yank this young fellow back from the brink. 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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