“My word holds,” she said. 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. “So, just how many foster homes were you in before the coming to live here?” “You don’t want to hear about all of that, Michelle. “Go on!” “You know—in Paris they coupled my name with some one’s—an Englishman’s. ” Mike parroted in a nasal tone. ” His father said. " Which was literally the truth.
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