She lamented only over Richard living alone and unministered to until he died.
When daylight came she got up, dressed herself, and prepared breakfast.

Charlotte came down before it was ready.

"Let me help get breakfast," she said, with an assumption of energy, standing in the kitchen doorway in her pretty mottled purple delaine.

The purple was the shade of columbine, and very becoming to Charlotte.

In spite of her sleepless night, her fine firm tints had not faded; she was too young and too strong and too full of involuntary resistance.