Lucy sighed, finding it odd to switch roles as she had over the past weeks. 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’ve got it. Mr. And then! a garment that was conceivably a secondary skirt. “What are you doing here? How dare you come to my rooms!” The man stepped into the middle of the room. She felt privileged above other women at parties, where she was on display as all the duchesses and queens looked upon her with envy as he was so clearly entranced by her in every way.
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