11 : Before the FactOn the morning of the Thursday on which she died, Mrs. Potter rose a trifle earlier than was her wont because there was so much to do.
She climbed out of the bed, which was a divan by day, and stood for a moment thinking. Her nightdress, copied from a figure on a Grecian plate, was surmounted by a pathetically warm and ugly bed jacket, comforting her throat and arms which the linen draperies neglected.
Her iron-grey hair was tousled and her face very pale. She had slept badly.
Mr. Potter had already risen and had retired to the lean-to shed behind the scullery in which he bit and printed his lithographs. He was safe for another hour at least.
His wife dressed mechanically, nervous lines wrinkling her forehead.
The studio was draughty and not very comfortable, so th
