" "Zounds!" exclaimed Wood; "it's my old master-key. . ’ Gerald laughed. 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. “What the hell. It was you! It was exactly you, but it was probably the photo they thought it was your mother! I dug it up after combing the Reader’s Guide To Periodical Literature for like, six hours straight. Then, there's Mr.
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