Spurlock mused over the previous night. " Lady Trafford sighed deeply. 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 have been very selfish,” she declared. The unexpected twist—his disclosure to McClintock—had given Spurlock but temporary relief. That wrappered life, as you call it—we’ve burned the confounded rags! Danced out of it! We’re stark!” “Stark!” echoed Ann Veronica. It’s gone. He flipped the television on.
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