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. They lived in a castle, the same place she had been turned in. ‘She’s wearing a lightskirt’s clothing?’ ‘Nothing obviously so, I assure you. As it happens sometimes, the idea stepped down from the dream into the reality; and he saw it more clearly now than he had seen it in the dream. ” “Will you remember me?” “Unfortunately.
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