” Ann Veronica read this letter through with grave, attentive eyes. He entered the room with his usual deliberation, and looked covertly about him. 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. Wood the best of wives. His figure was tall and commanding, and the expression of his countenance (though somewhat disturbed by his recent exertion) was resolute and stern. Then she dropped the curtain and stepped back into the room. She sought hastily in her mind for a plausible answer to an obvious question that didn’t come. She knew very well that a new thing was stirring in her. “Thanks, I’m not very fond of coffee,” Anna answered, “and I hate music. They said no more for a moment, and each was now acutely aware of the other. She was making it up.
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