She was well wrapped against the cold, her head especially being swathed about with lengths of knitted scarf over her silk hood; there was only a thin sharp gleam of face out of it, like a very lance of intelligence.

Margaret held out the stiff white corner of a letter from the folds of her shawl.

"He sent it," she said to Madelon, who came to the door.
Madelon opened the letter and read it.

"I can't come," she said, shortly.

"I'm busy.