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. Only she sent me a message, and together we found a cottage for her to stay at. I am an independent sort of person,” she continued, “and I am engaged in an attempt to earn my own living. She felt like Snow White in a secret forest house populated by dwarves. At the least, the tales had the ability to make her forget where she was; which was something in their favour. “And aren’t there fees to pay at the Imperial College?” her aunt was saying—a disagreeable question. I should have known at a glance if it was. We'll celebrate that check, and let the rest of the world go hang.
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