“How shall I put the question? What am I? What have I got to do with myself?. ‘One thing at a time, missie. ‘Forgive my not rising to greet you,’ she said, holding out a claw-like hand. When first brought under consideration, she was a miserable and forlorn object; squalid in attire, haggard in looks, and emaciated in frame. Conceiving himself called upon, as the intimate friend of the deceased, to pay this last tribute of respect to her memory, he appeared as one of the chief mourners. Why? Here was a curtain indeed.
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