She felt very awkward as she stared at 103 the top of his ashen hair. You dear, dear girl. 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 can't last long. But she disapproved more and more of her own mental austerity. Bring me clothing, I beg of you. I feel years younger, a man again.
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