It isn’t all. 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. From the first of these alighted Thames, or, as he must now be styled, the Marquis de Chatillon. Places, I found, were daily given away, And yet no friendly gazette mentioned Gay. She admired and rather pitied him, and she was unfeignedly grateful to him. “I have never yet met a man whose intellect I could respect.
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