“That is your sister’s name. "Shall I take the babby home with me!" persisted Wood, in a tone between jest and earnest. She went up-stairs and hesitated between four doors with ground-glass panes, each of which professed “The Women’s Bond of Freedom” in neat black letters. And yet—Wait a little, you’d better have every bit of it. Leastways, not on your own. Lucy crouched by the side of the grave, her head in her hands, rocking back and forth. ‘I’ll make it, miss. But there was a face pressed to the glass. ‘Read that,’ and threw the telegram at me, so that it went into the tureen. ” She nodded.
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