Though gifted with a strong frame, emotion had so weakened her that she was simply unable to stand.

Quite convinced of this, and affected in spite of himself by her look of lofty patience, Mr.
Gryce prefaced his questions with an apology--quite an unusual proceeding for him.
Whether or no she heard it, he could not tell; but she was quite ready to answer when he asked her name and then her place of residence--saying in response to the latter query: "I live at the Calderon, a family hotel in Sixty-seventh Street.
My name"-- here she paused for a second to moisten her lips--"is Taylor--Ermentrude Taylor....

Nothing else," she speedily added in a tone which drew every eye her way.

Then more evenly: "You will find the name on the hotel's books." "Wife or widow ?" "Widow." What a voice! how it reached every heart, waking strange sympathies there! As the word fell, not a person in the room but stirred uneasily.
Even she herself started at its sound; and moved, perhaps, by the depth of silence which followed, she added in suppressed tones: "A widow within the hour.

That's why you see me still in colors, but crushed as you behold--killed! killed!" That settled it.