Anna, who was disposed to be sharply critical, could find no fault with it. ‘Ah, bah, it is enough,’ she cried, and turning, ran out of the room. There was a tearing sound and the cloth of her habit ripped apart as the smothered point drove through it, missing its intended target. 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.
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