3. He was never known to err, and was as much dreaded as the jailfever in consequence. “Let us walk round to Covent Garden,” he suggested. It was Annabel’s. 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. “The rest,” she said, holding tightly to his hands, “is the most important of all. He answered with the greatest assurance, that he knew nothing whatever of the matter—had seen no pocket-book, and no associate to give up. She felt that Ann Veronica had duped her in that dream, and now that she had come up to London she might as well speak her mind. There were lines in her face that age had not put there. She helped him take it off.
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