She turned away from the doorway of the silk loom to observe. They were all stout ill-favoured men, attired in the regular jail-livery of scratch wig and snuff-coloured suit; and had all a strong family likeness to each other. Cathy's eyebrows perked up. “I don’t see quite what your game is, Vee, but I suppose you’ve got a game on somewhere. She gazed steadily out of the window at that arc of glittering lights. She then opened Lucy’s meager closet and plucked out a pair of heeled boots usually reserved for weddings and funerals. “But, my dear,” she began, “it is Impossible! It is quite out of the Question.
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