But De Maupassant—sheer off! Stick to Dickens and Thackeray and Hugo. 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. But for a long time, anyhow, we lovers have to be as if we were no more than friends. "Heaven have mercy on his soul!" ejaculated Wood. " "Who wouldn't be lively after thirty years' sleep? Did you hear her explain about beachcombers? And yet she looks at one with the straightest glance I ever saw.
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