Further on, there were impressions of bloody footsteps along the floor. The door opened. “I am exceedingly sorry,” he said. “Even Katy Pfister can’t touch you now. 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. F. I never let her read stories, or have pets, dolls.
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