Half after six. Part 4 At eight that evening Miss Stanley tapped at Ann Veronica’s bedroom door. ‘Martha was my wet-nurse? But she is unmarried. She was herself conscious of a recklessness of spirits almost hysterical. 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 came here to beg you not to sign that contract. The person, shortly afterwards ushered into the room, seemed by the imperfect light,—for the evening was advancing, and the chamber darkened by heavy drapery,—to be a middle-sized middle-aged man, of rather vulgar appearance, but with a very shrewd aspect.
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