” Annabel moistened her dry lips with a handkerchief steeped in eau de Cologne. “You decline to help us in any way, then,” he said. Yet she held her tongue. It was the blood she found that cemented her decision that her foster daughter was a criminal. 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.
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