His glance consulted my father.

He hummed and drawled, and said: 'Mistress Anastasia Dewsbury; that was her name.' 'She does not look a grandmother,' said my father.
'She would be one by this time, I dare say,' said I.
We gazed in silence.
'Yes!' he sighed.

'She was a charming actress, and one of the best of women.

A noble-minded young woman! A woman of cultivation and genius! Do you see a broken heart in that face?
No?
Very well.

A walk will take us to her grave.