One of the curtains on the far side of the room is lifted to the side by a skeletal hand, and then Mama enters. She is small, probably no higher than my shoulder, and painfully thin. Her body is wrapped in a long, dark dress, and a dark-colored shawl covers her head and shoulders. Only her hands and face are visible and they are old and wrinkled. Her bony hands, pale and touched with dark splotches, clutch the ends of the shawl while her face is like a fairytale witch. It is long and pointed, with a sharp nose and chin. Her thin lips part to reveal sharp and yellowed teeth. Her eyes are small and dark beneath pale brows, not pale and lifeless like Crawley’s, but almost as cold, like lumps of coal. Wisps of brittle, white hair escape from her kerchief and she sweeps the room with her gaze.