Lucilla shoved Roding out of the way so that she could take hold of Melusine’s hands again. A dry cough's the trumpeter of death. 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. ’ A thought caught in her mind and she turned quickly to her old nurse. She just sat and told me that was her arrangement. There was a recurrence of fever, but nothing alarming.
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