WHITEWASH
a moment, listening, and then silently turned back. She was small, thin, and clad in mourning-garments that accentuated her peculiarities. Under heavy brows her great black eyes burned with a deep, concentrated radiance that seemed to eat into her face, so consuming they were. Her hair, once as black as night, was striped with white, one great strand springing from her left temple contrasting strangely with the coil at the back of her head. She moved with a curious uncertainty, as though her actions were governed by unregulated, instantaneous impulses.
On the bureau lay her opened hand-bag, and upon the marble table-top, sole ornament of the room, stood a silver figure of St. Anne. The woman advanced to the statue, knelt with fervent devotion, crossing herself over and over, muttering and questioning. Suddenly she arose and stood listening, nodding her head as if in acquiescence to directions given. A deeper fire glowed in her eyes. Catching up the silver figure, she kissed its foot passionately, and then turned to her hand-bag. From it she took a cloth and a small bottle, smiling wisely all the while. Stealth-
