"You're only twenty—not legally of age. He leaned back in a low chair, and watched her graceful movements, the play of her white hands as she bent over some wonderful machine. "I am, Charcoal. Sebastian administered bitter tonics to her, fluids she could not taste with her swollen tongue. There was nothing to replace the all important letter from her father. He regarded that perennial miracle of pinning with wrathful eyes. 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. ” She smiled at him cheerfully. Certainly not a gentlewoman.
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