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. It was a face that matched her body, so pure and beautiful that any man would have killed for her. Melusine saw fire in his eyes and a streak of heat rushed through her to match it. “I will put the question,” Drummond said gravely. "You'll never return.
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