“Oh, Veronica!” she said, “to leave your home!” She had been weeping. 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. It was very much like a real house, with one central stalagmite that looked like a column and a waterfall that served when she wanted to bathe.
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