“Is Larry already in bed?” Cathy nodded yes. 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. I do not love any one. I hear they are very much affected by the tragedies of their neighbours in France. All at once her heart began to patter queerly. I don’t know.
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