“Dear old daddy!” she said, and was amazed to find herself shedding tears. 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. Spurlock was basically a poet, quick to recognize beauty, animate or inanimate, and to transcribe it in unuttered words. And also she didn’t like them. A small handgun bobbed at the end of it, aimed at Sheila. "No matter. "Poor creature!" ejaculated Wood. He believed me when I asked him to marry me.
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