Mrs. Armstrong tied off her thread and laid the dress down on her lap. “My husband and I have tried, but . . .” She turned her face upward, eyes closed, to where the light spilled into the workroom from a high window. “I don’t think I can.” Her skin gleamed, and it was hard to tell where the sunlight ended and she began. “On the plantation, one of the other women used to prepare herbs for those who . . .” She sighed. “They worked, but they’ve gone on working, all these years.”
