"It's a queer-like feeling of death and sorrow and tears of blood
and not lifting your head for groans," said Widow Anne
incoherently, "and there's meanings in mubble-fumbles, as we're
told in Scripture. Not but what the Perfesser's been a kind
gentleman to Sid in taking him from going round with the laundry
cart, and eddicating him to watch camphorated corpses: not as
what I'd like to keep an eye on them things myself. But there's
no more watching for my boy Sid, as I dreamed."
"What did you dream?" asked Lucy curiously.
Widow Anne threw up two gnarled hands, wrinkled with age and
laundry work, screwing up her face meanwhile.
"I dreamed of battle and murder and sudden death, my lady, with
Sid in his cold grave playing on a harp, angel-like. Yes!" she
folded her rusty shawl tightly round her spare form and nodded,
"there was Sid, looking beautiful in his coffin, and cut into a
hash, as you might say, with--"
"Ugh! ugh!" shuddered Lucy, and Archie strove to draw her away.
"With murder written all over his poor face," pursued the widow.
"And I woke up screeching with cramp in my legs and pains in my
lungs, and beatings in my heart, and stiffness in my--"
"Oh, hang it, shut up!" shouted Archie, seeing that Lucy was
growing pale at this ghoulish recital, "don't be fool, woman.
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