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. It seemed as if each time her imagination reached out investingly, an invisible lash beat it back. I do not think that I have the Bohemian spirit at all. Part of her even believed that her mother would have wanted her to stop feeling guilty and to be happy. Gianfrancesco had told her about it, how he had played in it as a child with his brothers. He awoke, strangely content. After debating with himself for some time whether he should employ an assistant, or make the attempt alone, his love of gain overcame his fears, and he decided upon the latter plan.
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