There was another phrase which sounded something like 'Gin in a blue-serge coat'. She found the silence comforting, as old people often do. Her hair, once red, faded to a thin gray that she kept cut into a practical short bob. No sterner head was ever beheld beneath the cowl of a monk, or the bonnet of an inquisitor. Here was a little corner of the past—a tragic corner. “For your own sake, let me beg of you not to stay for a moment. ” She taunted. . “So Lucy, I hear that you are quite the violin player. Good-bye aunt.
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