There was scant social life on the Sha-mien aside from masculine foregatherings, little that interested him. 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. Spit of your mother. I did not lay any traps for her. But Melusine’s own words had thrown an idea into her head. “You shall,” she said. Besides, he might hear things.
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