She held the white fold of her shawl over her head with one hand and gathered the trailing skirts with the other.

They rustled as she moved like the leaves of the elms at night above the roof, as she led him along the walk where little straight spears of green and blunt flower crowns faintly tinged with colour came up thickly in the borders.
So by degrees she got him down past the hyacinth beds and the nodding buds of the daffodils to the gate and on the road again, walking home in the chill early twilight with the pricking of a pleasant excitement in his veins.
It was that, perhaps, and the sense of having got so much more out of it than any account of his visit would justify, that kept Peter from saying much to his mother that night about his talk with the rich man; he asked her instead if she had ever seen Mrs.Dassonville.
"Yes," she assured him.

"Mr.Dassonville drove her over to Mrs.
Tillinghurst's funeral in October.

They had only been married a little while then; she is the second Mrs.Dassonville, you know; the first died years ago.

I thought her a very lovely lady." "A lovely lady," Peter said the phrase under his breath.