‘You’re the most troublesome wretch I’ve ever encountered,’ he told her bitterly. Thames did not attempt to offer him any consolation, for he was almost as much dejected. Wood then led the way up a rather high and, according to modern notions, incommodious flight of steps, and introduced his guest to a neat parlour, the windows of which were darkened by pots of flowers and creepers. She broke a cobblestone over his head and he was out. He tried again. 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. She reloaded.
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