” Her hand fell back into her lap. What do you think, Annabel?” “I don’t think they would,” she admitted. How I could have been such a fool I’ll never know. She makes me feel terribly old-fashioned. 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. E. "The end is the most beautiful in English literature.
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