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The Silver Shawl

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The Silver Shawl

GLOUCESTER. In my opinion yet thou seest not well.

SIMCOX. Yes, master, clear as day, I thank God and St. Alban.

GLOUCESTER. Say’st thou me so? What colour is this cloak of?

- William Shakespeare, Henry VI.

Mrs. Henney knocked lightly at the door. The early morning sunlight was streaming in through the potted plants in the window at the end of the hall, over the faded strip of carpet down the middle of the floor, and gleaming on the polished wood of the door by which Mrs. Henney stood. Having waited with lifted hand, but received no answer, she knocked again.

“Miss Charity?” she said. “Breakfast is ready.”

She listened with her head tilted toward the door, but there was no sound. Mrs. Henney smiled indulgently to herself and turned away. Sleeping a little late, she didn’t doubt—Miss Charity’d been that busy these last few weeks, and down to Miss Lewis’s last evening as usual. No harm in letting her get a bit of rest, Mrs. Henney thought as she descended the back stairs to the kitchen—she would take a tray up to Miss Charity’s room after she had served breakfast to her other ladies and gentlemen.

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