But you belong to me—and I want you. ‘I don’t know what the devil you’re talking about. 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. Wanting his coat, when he must have known that the pockets were empty! But the effort to talk had cost him something. Her old nurse’s hands returned the pressure.
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