Her back arched slightly in response. 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. The delay was only momentary. The latch had not fully caught. S. John laughed even harder, his eyes misting over. This time you cannot. . Servants were passing backwards and forwards with tea and chocolate.
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