But she was not sure just how to reach it. 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. He would stare at her intensely when he was certain his parents were not looking in his direction. Here they would be having lunch. ” She roused herself from some dream at the word. Her hair had begun to grow back, it now swept to her shoulders.
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