In the front room of the cottage there was not a single article of furniture left, so far as I can remember.

The weaver's wife was in the little kitchen, and, knowing the gentleman who was with me, she invited us forward.

She was a wan woman, with sunken eyes, and she was not much under fifty years of age.

Her scanty clothing was whole and clean.
She must have been a very good-looking woman sometime, though she seemed to me as if long years of hard work and poor diet had sapped the foundations of her constitution; and there was a curious changeful blending of pallor and feverish flush upon that worn face.
But, even in the physical ruins of her countenance, a pleasing expression lingered still.

She was timid and quiet in her manner at first, as if wondering what we had come for; but she asked me to sit down.