“You are coming my way,” Courtlaw answered. 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 brought her hands up to her head and ripped out two long chunks of her hair, pulling out shreds of scalp. This way there will be not so much shame, and the vicomte will let them remain.
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