Her unnatural calm was giving way. 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. There was once a philanthropist who dressed with shameful shabbiness and carried pearls in his pocket. Once again, he passed his hand over the surface and carefully noted all the obstacles. I’ve been waiting all my life to get out of this town.
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