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. “And what is it all about, Veronica?” he asked, with a deliberate note of irony, looking at her a little quizzically over his glasses. The time was the 26th of November, 1703: the place, the Mint in Southwark. Meanwhile, the mob outside had prodigiously increased, and had begun to exhibit some disposition to riot. Walpole for your apprehension. Always her prayers ended—'And may my beautiful mother guide me!' No.
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