She had no time to bother with anybody this morning.
But the young person in the rusty overcoat, with the dark-blue serge Eton jacket under it, which might have come from Wanamaker's two years ago, who yet wore a leather belt with gleaming pistols under the Eton jacket, was a new species.

Mrs.Brady was taken off her guard; else Elizabeth might have found entrance to her grandmother's home as difficult as she had found entrance to the finishing school of Madame Janeway.
"Are you Mrs.Brady ?" asked the girl.

She was searching the forbidding face before her for some sign of likeness to her mother, but found none.
The cares of Elizabeth Brady's daughter had outweighed those of the mother, or else they sat upon a nature more sensitive.
"I am," said Mrs.Brady, imposingly.
"Grandmother, I am the baby you talked about in that letter," she announced, handing Mrs.Brady the letter she had written nearly eighteen years before.
The woman took the envelope gingerly in the wet thumb and finger that still grasped a bit of the gingham apron.

She held it at arm's length, and squinted up her eyes, trying to read it without her glasses.

It was some new kind of beggar, of course.