She stood on the mat instead, and looked down on 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. "I was just thinking of you Jack. “Annabel?” he exclaimed. ” Lucy had not touched Sebastian or made love to him in years. Glad to get back, I’m sure,” he said briskly.
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