A few people in the crowd placed hands across their
chests as I walked by and I recognized faces: Mr. Porter, the young carriage driver
whose son always had a runny nose; Mrs. Whittaker, her cabbage cheeks ballooned in talk; little Frances Gilbert, Lizzie's least - favorite Sunday school pupil, scratching up her wild
hair, her squirrel eyes gazing at the house.
The blond children had been loaded up into a van, driven by a woman
whose grey
hair was pulled up in a bun, and the mother was walking back into the facility with her arms crossed over her
chest.