Lucy stole her last chance to observe Martin Chen, looking provocatively into his 257 eyes as the door was shut. 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. ‘Nevertheless, he will neither help me, nor will I seek his help. There's one person in the house whom I wouldn't frighten for the world.
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