Manning,” she began. A gust of irrational impatience blew through her being. She should have slapped him but she was in shock at her own thoughts of lust that arose. 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. “Nigel is like all men,” Lady Lescelles continued. "Come along, Mrs.
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