‘Your wife?’ ‘My wife,’ he repeated, rising also, his smile mocking her. But it was of no avail. I have always had a secret crush on him, to be honest with you. 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. The whole story of your relationship is a fabrication. ” Lucy replied. ” For a moment Mr.
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