While the strife was raging, Edgeworth Bess walked up to Rachel, and advised her, if she valued her life, not to scream or stir from the spot; a caution which the housekeeper, whose curiosity far outweighed her fears, received in very good part. 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. "When did you see him, my love?" "A short time ago," replied the housekeeper, unsuspiciously. But at this point he was still subservient, still outwardly humble, in spite of the blackhearted villainy that was even then burgeoning in his breast. She was acquiring truths, but in a series of shocks rather than by the process of analysis. I’m sorry. It was the same smell that she had in his memory, but now it was definite, palpable, like a perfume. He sat down. She writhed in ecstasy as she wrapped her legs around his waist, then raised her knees to his shoulders. And he had destroyed all this.
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