The woman had been a beauty once, of a delicate, nervous type, and had a certain beauty now, a something which had endured like the fineness of texture of a web when its glow of color has faded.

Her black garments draped her with sober richness, and there was a gleam of dark fur when the wind caught her cloak.

A small tuft of ostrich plumes nodded from her bonnet.

Ellen smelt flowers vaguely, and looked at the lady's hand, but she did not carry any.
"Whose little girl are you ?" Cynthia Lennox asked, softly, and Ellen did not answer.

"Can't you tell me whose little girl you are ?" Cynthia Lennox asked again.