They came teeming distressfully through her aching brain: “A man can kick, his skirts don’t tear; A man scores always, everywhere. I’m sorry. " "I feel it," replied Jack, in a tone of agony, "and I feel it more on my poor mother's account than my own. 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. She looked at her for a moment fixedly.
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