The cork came out with a loud pop, and Anna could not help wondering how it must sound to the patient little crowd outside. 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. It’s just to feel—one owns one’s self. The two hostlers, however, kept close at his heels; and Jack, whose strength began to flag, feared he could not hold much longer. But she had not reckoned with the etiquette of Canongate.
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