She knew that babies came from the womb; her womb had fallen out with her baby. “I’d chuck this lark right off if I were you, Vee,” he said. 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. He did not care whether the stories were accepted or not.
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