Shrinking involuntarily back into the farthest corner of the seat, Jack buried his face in his hands. She had heard the trader utter it many times. He backed away from her. 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. “John,” she said, “I can spare you that question.
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