‘Mademoiselle. You can trust me, Anna. He began a jerky, broken conversation that lasted until they reached the station, and left her puzzled at its drift and meaning. She shook her head, almost breaking a smile. 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. ‘Well, shan’t I come to the major’s house up Stratton Street, sir?’ ‘I’ll give the major your report, Trodger.
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