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Sarah was between fifty and fifty-five years of age, erect,
with a confident step which became more pronounced as she
approached the country people, giving her an air of boldness
heightened by the unnatural colour throbbing in her cheeks.
She kept her eyes downcast on the gravel as she walked, only
raising them for an instant when she felt giddy. Her complexion
had the appearance and texture of wax, and the deep and
shadowy furrows which ran from each side of her nostrils to
the comers of her mouth accentuated the soft, full and
fading lips. She wore a tailored coat of fine grey material,
open so that the stuff of her wedding-dress was visible,
steel-grey in colour, with an ill-cut cameo pinned in the
lace yoke. A shallow black hat with a blue and white
ornament in front was set straight on top of her mouse-
coloured hair, and the hair was so arranged at the temples
as to cover, not with complete success, a white streak.
"They make a gladsome couple, eh? He remarked the man
with the billhook as he watched Hamilton and Sarah from
between two stones.
"Aye, and making his own son follow him as best man -
its a crying shame• ” added the woman beside him, drawing her
fat arms that were red with the cold, further under her shawl.
The man with the billhook shot a lance of tobacco spittle into
a cluster of porcelain flowers. " whose son?" he asked, quizzing
the woman sardonically. "He’s as bad as the rest - there’s bad
