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Twice she smiled, but not unkindly. She admitted her pleasure to Ramage. A spot of colour, brighter than any rouge, burned on her cheeks. Sometimes these dreams are simple and tender; sometimes they are magnificent. 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. Why did you go back to your old look? Don’t take it personally, Lucy, but sometimes you look like you are trying to dress ‘poor’ or something. " The spinsters nodded approvingly.
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