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He placed his chin upon the top of her head. ’ ‘Oh, this is becoming nonsensical,’ exclaimed Lucilla. A male voice, vibrant with terror, yelled out hoarsely. 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. As he crossed the cellar, he passed so near to Jack who had concealed himself behind a piece of furniture that he almost touched him. One glance through the window at that picturesque head had been sufficient. But after all, what did it matter whether she had secrets or not? To him she was not a woman but a symbol; and one did not investigate the antecedents of symbols. “I have come to tell you this. She pointed suddenly at the portrait. It gave her joy to see them laughing, even though she was unsure of what she had done wrong.
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