“I don’t want you to do it, to go on talking to me. “Dear John,” she whispered. 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. She’s obsessed with him, you know, totally obsessed. Some one may observe us. I can’t tell anyone certain things about my life. She felt he was going to say something more—something still more personal and intimate. “While we were minding the children they stole our rights and liberties.
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