She was aware of people—her aunt, her father, her fellow-students, friends, and neighbors— moving about outside this glowing secret, very much as an actor is aware of the dim audience beyond the barrier of the footlights. 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. He knew she had been weeping. She pointed hither and yon, smiled and shook her head. ” “I suppose not. A little Cockney recovered it, and made ridiculous attempts to get to her and replace it. I want you. Lucy stood in front of the piano.
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