He left that arid rule clear of the least mist of refinement or delicacy. “Yes, I see that. And so your Melusine is busy trying to prove that she is the real one. 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. "I did not come hither to consult you as to the state of my health, Sir," he observed, displeased by Jonathan's allusion to the alteration in his appearance. That had taken her by surprise, and her tired wits had failed her. To even presume a lustful thought about her was to ask for one’s own death.
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