. " "It matters not what I think," replied Wild. In one hand she carried a long-stalked red rose, dripping with dew, in the other the post-bag. She hated being angry, the uselessness of it all, the frustration. Nevertheless, relief washed over her, her body rejoicing in the afterglow of twenty years of tension released. 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. She shook her head. We’re going in.
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