" "Only three days," reiterated the widow, "three short short days,—and then all is over. Then she sat watching the play, sometimes offering a helpful suggestion, sometimes letting her attention wander to the smoothly shining arms she had folded across her knees just below the edge of the table. Good riddance. “Did you—did you really think that they would take you for a Frenchman?” she exclaimed. Even the most sullen and withdrawn were sensitive to the penetrating nastiness of the fog. So frightful, indeed, were the ravages of this malady, to which debtors and felons were alike exposed, that its miserable victims were frequently carried out by cart-loads, and thrown into a pit in the burial-ground of Christ-church, without ceremony. Nature is God, Anna, and the greatest artist of us all a pigmy. I know something about men.
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