What sort of a human being are you, anyhow?" Enschede gazed seaward. 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 should be unafraid to go anywhere with you. I can’t explain—” They regarded one another, each blinded to the other.
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