"You poor child!" Prudence took Ruth's hands in her own. These were so outside her experience that she found it possible to thrust them almost out of sight by saying they would be “all right” in confident tones to herself. Jordan and Josiah. “No way!” Michelle cried, and also looked around for pedestrian listeners. She felt a storm of emotion surging up within 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. Pure romantic nonsense on her part.
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