“I ought to look up Gwen,” she said. " "A child!" thought Wood; it must be the fugitive Darrell. He was unable to possess Lucy's hand as he had in the cinema, separated by the annoying chasm between the van's plush seats. 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 was at the end of girlhood and on the eve of a woman’s crowning experience. The pause lengthened, and he had the satisfaction of seeing despair melt the set mockery of Spurlock's mouth.
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