The stage, its progression necessarily slow, bumped unevenly as the coachman swerved this way and that in an effort to avoid the worst of the ruts left by the late snow. Even this early in March, pockets of unfrozen white could be seen about the fields beyond the misty window. Wedged in one corner, Miss Prudence Hursley wriggled her toes, encased against the numbing cold in a despised pair of eminently sensible black boots. Lifting her mittened hands, she cupped them at her mouth and blew warmth into them. Like the rest of her ensemble, the worsted mittens were at once warm and sadly unfashionable. The woollen petticoat was of dull grey, as was the short jacket in the pierrot style, closely fitting, with a small frill at the back and long tight sleeves. A plain round bonnet of black completed the picture—one that was to the young lady as familiar as it was unappealing—together with a black cloak that was slipping away from her shoulders and creasing against the aged squabs. Rubbing her hands briskly together, Miss Hursley thanked Providence for her sheltered position within the vehicle.
