“They have all been trying to turn my head. 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 was not human and yet very human, a high pitched wail of hunger that rattled her skull. . No, let us dine here, and then go and have our coffee on the boulevards.
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