” “Men,” said Miss Miniver, “NEVER have a reason. 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. ‘Who me, sir? Lor’ no, sir. The light would betray us. The first peg was torture. We've got to make him take up the harp of life and go twanging it again. It was Ennison, who loomed up through the shadows. I consider even now that the present colour is far less becoming.
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