It arises, I think, from an over developed sense of humour. 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. “Only you are the woman I love, and you are in trouble. \"Lucy?\" He called her as she turned. She chose to hold her nose. And the jailers also retired. Once in the room, the door locked, the sense of loneliness had dropped away from her as the mists used to drop away from the mountain in the morning. ” She said.
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