Saren Chen was a tall woman, thin and beautiful in a masculine way, Germanic. 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. Once outside, she ran towards the playground, and the grotto, a miniature limestone version of the manor, which was in itself a miniature of a fortress. Of you, I mean. "Tut, tut! Don't exaggerate. It was a great weight from her shoulders to confide in another human being, and she suspected he did truly believe her. " "Of course—of course," returned Wood, hastily; "anything's better than that. I wonder how it is,” she added, “that boys always make love so impertinently.
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