Ann Veronica surveyed his sloping back for a moment, and then drew her microscope toward her. 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 marvelled at his apparent imperviousness to the heat. ‘Dieu du ciel, but answer me!’ Martha’s eyes were swimming again, and she reached out. ‘I left a message at home that he should do so as soon as he returned from Kent.
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