Through this, his last trial, Jack's spirits never deserted him. Had he had the child to think of, he might have recovered from his grief at Mary’s death. 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. His hand rested heavily and cruelly upon Ruth's shoulder. “Who do you think cares for your children as you dally with my husband, Clotilde?” Lucy asked. “Sure, I guess so. ” “Not for you?” “No.
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