Previously: War Secretary Stanton holds the Lincolns and janitor Gabby Zook captive under guard in the White House basement.Private Adam Christy takes guard duties. Lincoln’s friend Ward Lamon tries to figure out what’s going on.
Ward Lamon knew the double was lying; Abraham Lincoln never hid from his enemies. Edwin Stanton had put the president somewhere and replaced him with this fellow who was a very bad liar. Nicolay and Hay knew Lincoln was gone, but he did not think they knew where he was. The private was the linchpin, but Lamon could not get to him. He was everywhere, yet nowhere, and no one would help.
Once or twice, while in the president’s office, he saw the red-haired private walk by.
“Who’s that?” he had asked the double.
“My adjutant, Private Adam Christy.”
“Where is he going?”
“About his duties.”
Questioning Nicolay and Hay had not been any more helpful; once Lamon had talked to Tad about him.
“He’s only a private. We used to have a lieutenant.”
“Yeah. Too bad. Where does he come from?”
“He told me, but I forgot.”
“Does he know where your papa is?”
Tad looked at him quizzically. “Are you in on it?”
“In on what?”
“If you have to ask, then you’re not.”
“Oh, you mean ‘it,’” Lamon said, trying to trick the boy.
“You’re pulling my leg now.”
“No, I’m not.” Lamon became flustered.
“I gotta go.” Tad scampered away down the hall and disappeared down the stairs.
Lamon tried to figure out why Tad did not want to tell him if Private Adam Christy knew the whereabouts of his parents. The “it” was the switch of presidents, which Tad was in on, but obviously the boy thought his father was in charge. Throughout the afternoon, as he sat in his district marshal office reading reports on the whereabouts of spies in the capital, Lamon considered the almost two years that had passed since Lincoln disappeared. He felt stupid, first for having just accepted what Stanton had told him, and second for not figuring out why Lincoln was missing and where he might be.
As evening approached, he sighed and went to a small restaurant to eat. After he sat and began sipping a beer, he noticed across the room a young couple, both red-haired, the man in a blue, rumpled private’s uniform. The soldier’s back was to Lamon, who wondered if this was the elusive presidential adjutant. When the waiter came up, the private turned his head, and Lamon saw that it was Adam. After the waiter left, he went to the table. The girl, young and vivacious, saw him first and smiled, but when Adam looked up, his face sobered.
“Mr. Lamon,” Adam said as he stood and extended his hand. “We’ve yet to meet. Always just missing each other.” He turned to the girl. “Jessie, this is Mr. Lincoln’s personal bodyguard, Ward Lamon. He’s also the district marshal.”
“Pleased to meet ye, Mr. Lamon.”
“Nice meeting you, Miss…”
“Home,” Adam supplied.
“Miss Home.” Lamon smiled. “Do you work in the White House too?”
“No,” Adam interrupted. “She volunteers at Armory Square Hospital.” He looked at Lamon. “Is there a problem with the president?”
“I don’t know,” he replied, his smile disappearing. “I was hoping you could tell me.”
“I have to go powder me nose, gentlemen,” Jessie said, standing. “I’ll let ye talk business in private.” Before they could reply, she had disappeared into the crowd.
“Sit,” Adam told him.
“Very pretty young lady,” Lamon remarked. “How did you meet?”
“Through mutual friends.”
“Oh, might I know them?”
“What do you want to ask about Mr. Lincoln?” Adam asked, sipping his coffee.
“Where is he?”
“Retired to his bedroom, I suppose.”
“No, I mean the real Mr. Lincoln.”
“I only know of one Mr. Lincoln.” Adam stared into Lamon’s eyes.
“When did you start working at the White House?”
“September of sixty-two; why?”
“It was about that time that Mr. Lincoln grew half an inch.”
“I wouldn’t know anything about that.” Adam sipped his coffee again. “I just do what I’m told to do.”
“You stay busy, don’t you?”
“Yes, I do.”
“But not always on the second floor.”
“That’s true.” Again Adam stared at Lamon. “The Lincolns have me doing chores all over the place.” After a pause, he asked, “Mr. Lamon, what do you want?”
“Well,” Lamon replied with a small laugh, “I think it’s like finding out if you know the same secret I do without telling the secret, if that makes any sense.”
“What secret?”
Lamon looked deep into Adam’s face, his eyes, his mouth, trying to detect some nervous tic which would let him know if the boy was lying to him.
“That’s a pretty good job for a private to get, presidential adjutant,” Lamon said, deciding to go in another direction. “How did you get it?”
“Mr. Stanton.” Adam looked down at his plate and pushed string beans around with his fork. “He’s from my home town. My father grew up with him.” He looked up with a smile. “Sometime, when we can spare a few hours, I’ll have to tell you some funny stories about him.”
“Well, I don’t care for Mr. Stanton much.”
“Neither do I.” He speared some beans and put them in his mouth.
“Do you know why Mr. Stanton picked you for such an important job?”
“Like I said, he knows my family.”
“Hmm. Tad’s a handful, isn’t he?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Does he ever tell you things?”
“Mr. Pendel is his main playmate.” Adam sipped his coffee. “He doesn’t like the fact I’m only a private and not a lieutenant.”
“So you must really like your job.”
Adam stopped and swallowed hard. Lamon thought he detected a tic in his left eye, and then Adam smiled and stood. “Jessie.”
Looking around to see her walking back, a twinkle in her eyes for Adam.
“So, did me darlin’ tell you what you needed to know about Mr. Lincoln?”
“I don’t know.” Lamon stared at Adam’s face. The tic vanished, if it had been there in the first place.

The torture did not end. Days extended into weeks. May arrived, the rain continued, and Duff again heard Stanton coughing.
“The news is not good from Chancellorsville,” Stanton said, wiping spit from his chin.
“What is it?”
“Grant has engaged Lee in a forest called the Wilderness.”
“That’s what we wanted, isn’t it?”
“Heavy losses.” Stanton coughed again.
“So you’re going to replace Grant?”
“I don’t know.” He leaned back in the chair and moaned. “I haven’t seen Lincoln yet.”
“What?”
Stanton sat up and coughed. “I haven’t given it much thought yet.”
“You talk to…” Duff paused to look at the door behind Stanton. “You go to the basement?”
“It’s not your concern.” Stanton straightened his shoulders. “You will be informed of our—my decision eventually.”
“Oh.” Duff tried not to smile.
The next morning Stanton announced to him that he had decided to stay the course with General Grant.
“Grant’s determination will prevail in the end, like the little dog hanging on to the traveling salesman’s trouser leg,” Stanton said, acting a little delirious. “We’ll stay out of Grant’s way.”
“Very astute,” Duff replied.
In another few days, Stanton relayed news of a devastating defeat at Spotsylvania.
“Perhaps I should write a letter of encouragement to General Grant,” Duff said.
“Yes,” Stanton replied, pursing his Cupid’s bow lips.
On the last day of May 1864, the rain finally stopped, and Duff walked out of the Executive Mansion to the turnstile on his way to the War Department, wanting to find out details on the battle at Cold Harbor. Stanton was suffering from another hacking asthma attack in Duff’s office. Deep in his heart, Duff wished Stanton would stop coughing and just die. Looking up, Duff found Lamon blocking the turnstile.
“Mr. President.”
“I was on my way to the War Department telegraph office.”
“Yes. It doesn’t look good.”
“We’re staying the course.” Duff’s eyes went to the ground. “With Grant.”
“I can see you’re staying the course.” Lamon paused. “Where’s Stanton?”
“In my office. Wrestling with his asthma.”
“He’s still sick?”
“Yes.”
“Maybe he’ll die.”
“Maybe.” Duff looked up.
Lamon laughed as he stepped out of the way to let Duff go through the turnstile.
“I’m here when you need me, Mr. President.”
“Thank you.”
Lamon stopped the turnstile, blocking Duff in the gate. He looked deep into Duff’s eyes for a long moment and then leaned in close.
“I can’t help if you lie to me.”

Previously in the novel: War Secretary Stanton holds the Lincolns and janitor Gabby Zook captive under guard in the White House basement.Private Adam Christy takes guard duties. Mrs. Surratt confronts Gabby’s sister Cordie at the boardinghouse about spying for the South. Adam and girlfriend Jessie enjoy the parade celebrating the Gettysburg victory.
Duff’s mouth went dry when Stanton informed him he had to deliver an address at the dedication of the cemetery at Gettysburg. Four months after the battle, the war dead were being memorialized. Duff Read, private citizen, had never spoken in public; as Abraham Lincoln, he must speak as a seasoned orator.
“Do I have to do this?”
“Yes,” Stanton replied. “Don’t blame me. I don’t want you talking in front of reporters.”
“Then why do I have to go?”
“Because David Wells of the Gettysburg Cemetery Association asked. Ward Lamon suggested it and managed to have himself named procession grand marshal.”
“What will I say?”
“Lincoln will write the speech.”
The day arrived, and Duff was on the train to Gettysburg along with Hay, Nicolay, Lamon, and Cabinet members Seward, Blair, and Usher. The new treasurer, Francis E. Spinner, refused to attend, saying, “Let the dead bury the dead.” Stanton also declined to go. Reading the speech as he sat in the rail car, Duff noticed it was short. He smiled in relief. When the train arrived at Gettysburg station, Seward spoke to the crowd. The next morning Lamon lead the procession to the new cemetery, exuberantly waving to the people on the roadside. Duff shifted uneasily in his chair, as he listened to Edward Everett’s two-hour oration. When time came for Duff to speak, he stood on wobbly legs and tried to find his voice as he stared out on the assembly. A photographer set up his camera.
The words were good, sturdy, Anglo-Saxon words with depth and meaning, yet when he tried to give them voice, Duff choked. Taking a sip of water, he began Lincoln’s speech, though softly and without much projection. When he finished, half the crowd did not know he had begun. A photographer’s flash caught him just as he returned to his seat.
Afterwards, most of the reporters seemed interested in getting a copy of Edward Everett’s speech; however, a few did request Lincoln’s address, which Duff obliged by handing out copies Stanton had provided. Stanton insisted he tell them the original had been composed on the back of an envelope. If this were true, Duff did not know; but Stanton swore the shred of information was the stuff that history was of.
On the train back the next morning, Duff sat alone watching Seward, Blair, and Usher dictating letters to their secretaries. His secretaries were laughing at Lamon, who was singing and dancing.
“All the grand ladies who live in big cities…”
Hay laughed out loud at the rhyming end of the next line, while Nicolay smiled and shook his head.
“Mr. Lincoln did well on his speech, didn’t he, John?” Lamon asked, huffing after his dance.
“Ja,” Nicolay said. “The president did quite well.”
With that reply, Lamon laughed and danced a few more irregular steps before concentrating on Hay.
“Johnny, how would you compare today’s speech to those Mr. Lincoln made on the campaign stump back in Illinois?”
“I haven’t noticed.” Hay looked up, wide-eyed.
Again Lamon laughed and jigged his way to sit next to Duff. Lamon slapped him on the knee.
“Well, Mr. Lincoln,” Lamon exclaimed, “you did yourself proud, sir.”
“I don’t know,” Duff replied in a mumble. “No one seemed much impressed.”
“They will.” Lamon leaned into him to whisper, “Modesty is a good touch. My friend would have been reticent, too.”
Duff’s eyes roamed out the train window to see crowds gathered by the tracks.
“You should let the people see you,” Lamon said so all the others in the car could hear. “Wave to them. They love you.”
Standing, Duff leaned out the window to gesture with his right hand, while resting his left hand on the sill. Soon he was aware Lamon’s hand was on top his.
“Say nothing,” Lamon advised under his breath, “and continue to wave. I’ll ask you questions, and you’ll respond by making a fist under my palm for yes. If the answer is no, flatten it.”
Duff quaked inside: one of his terrible secrets was that he was innately a coward.
“Is this plan really the idea of Mr. Stanton?”
He could not make his hand move. Lamon lifted his weight from it, making it easy for Duff to make a fist if he wanted to.
“Is Mr. Stanton acting on the orders of Mr. Lincoln?”
His fingers quickly went to a fist. If Duff were going to lie, he had to do it without hesitation.
“So Mr. Lincoln is not being held against his will?”
Duff’s hand went flat, and he hated himself for lying the second time.
“Are you afraid?”
His hand stayed flat, but it shook. Lamon patted it.
“Wave to the people, Mr. President.”

Previously in the novel: War Secretary Stanton holds the Lincolns and janitor Gabby Zook captive under guard in the White House basement.Private Adam Christy takes guard duties. Mrs. Surratt confronts Gabby’s sister Cordie at the boardinghouse about spying for the South. Cordie’s attempts to pry information from Adam.
Adam’s heart raced as he watched Cordie’s iron trolley disappear into the night. He jumped when he felt fingers tapping his shoulder.
“What are ye lookin’ for, me pretty soldier boy? Jessie asked.
“I was looking for you, Miss Home.” Adam turned and grinned.
“Ye was lookin’ down the wrong lane, me darlin’.” Jessie squinted and rubbed her gloved fingers along his unshorn cheek. “And what kind of military mission are ye on, Adam Christy, that ye can go days without shavin’ that wonderful face?”
“They don’t seem to care much.”
“And ye don’t seem to care much, either.”
Looking away, Adam could not find an answer to her observation.
“I wonder where Miss Cordie is,” Jessie said. “She’s late for the parade.”
“She’s already been here.” Adam held up the folded trousers. “She gave me these pants for her brother. When she said how tired she was, I told her to go home to rest. I told her you would understand.”
“Hmm.” Jessie narrowed her eyes. “How lucky for ye, me laddie. Now we don’t have a chaperone, do we?”
“Pretty soon,” Adam said, smiling nervously, “we’ll have ten thousand chaperones, all around us.”
“Oh. Well.” Jessie laughed. “As long as you put it like that.” She pointed to the trousers. “Shouldn’t ye take those pants inside to Mr. Gabby?”
“Oh.” Adam glanced toward the Executive Mansion. “I think I hear the parade coming. I wouldn’t have time. Mr. Gabby always wants to talk. It’d take too long.” He shuffled his feet and ran his fingers through his red hair. “Gosh darn it, I don’t want to lose any time with you.”
“A cursin’ man, are ye?” She laughed. “Well, we wouldn’t want to provoke another such outburst.”
Before Adam could reply, the crowd arrived. Many carried torches; others had drums, and a few banged pots and kettles with wooden spoons. He looked up to a second-story window and pointed. “The president stands in that window—see, the one that’s lit with candles.”
As the crowds jostled them, the curtains opened, revealing Duff.
“See there,” Jessie said, pointing. “Look, the light is on his Adam’s apple.”
Adam looked up to see the candle move from the neck to Duff’s face.
“Isn’t it glorious, Miss Home?” a voice behind them asked.
Adam turned to see a middle-aged man wearing a wide-brimmed hat.
“A monumental movement of humanity, joined together by joy and patriotism.”
“Yes, Mr. Whitman,” Jessie said. “’Tis good to see people happy. Too much sadness surrounds us today.”
“Well, aren’t you a handsome, strapping soldier?” He appraised Adam and then turned to Jessie. “Are you two courting? I hope so. Your progeny would be beautiful, red-haired demigods, worthy of loud huzzahs.”
“No, we’re just good friends.” Jessie’s eyes fluttered.
“Where are you going now?” he asked. “I’m going to follow the crowd, wherever it may go. Perhaps I’ll find myself drinking and singing with a group of soldiers as dashing as your friend.”
“We’re going to supper,” Adam impulsively said.
“Very well. Enjoy.” He disappeared in the crowd which was fading into the darkness.
“Who was that?”
“A poet and a nurse. One of the noblest creatures I’ve ever seen. He’s the first one there in the mornin’, checkin’ for the dead, to remove them to make room for the newly wounded. I’ve seen him obey young men about to die, tellin’ him to pin their socks together and crossin’ their arms across their thin chests, all the while tears rollin’ down his cheeks.”
“And he’s very smart,” Adam added as he and Jessie turned to walk down the street. “He said we should be courting. Maybe while we eat we could talk about that some more.”
“Ye think so, do ye?” Jessie laughed. Rubbing his cheek, she added, “If I’m to be your girlfriend, ye have to look your best. Ye want to look your best for me, don’t ye?”
The world cannot be all bad if red-haired angels are here, Adam decided; he smiled and nodded.

Previously in the novel: War Secretary Stanton holds the Lincolns and janitor Gabby Zook captive under guard in the White House basement. Stanton selects Duff, an AWOL convict,to impersonate Lincoln. Mrs. Surratt confronts Gabby’s sister Cordie at the boardinghouse.
“I’m sorry I’ve been harsh with you.” Mrs. Surratt looked fondly at Cordie.
“Then you’re not going to charge me for having Gabby’s clothes here?”
“Of course not.” She paused. “While your loyalty to your father and his Union sympathies is worthy, you must admit Mr. Lincoln does nothing to ease your financial woes.”
“Gabby and I take care of ourselves.”
“You know, the awful northern press paints a terribly unfair picture of the South and its sympathizers. We don’t want to see any citizen suffer. A lady like you shouldn’t have to worry about where the rent money is coming from each month.”
“Between selling quilts and mending socks I can pay our bills.” Cordie was becoming irritated by Mrs. Surratt’s comments on money. It was not her business.
“But you must have enough for emergencies.”
“What emergencies?” Cordie tried to sound pleasant.
“Why,” Mrs. Surratt said, with a twinkle in her eyes, “when a daft old woman like me demands more money than she should.”
“Oh.” That did not make sense to Cordie, but she did not want to be rude and tell Mrs. Surratt that.
“I shouldn’t tell you this, but I do so want to help you—in the spirit of the Confederacy, of course.” Mrs. Surratt put her arm around Cordie’s rounded shoulders. “My son John has very close contacts with the Confederate government, and therefore access to the Confederate treasury. I think I could intercede on your behalf to my son for money.”
“I don’t want charity.” Cordie was becoming angry.
“Bless you, my dear. Of course you don’t want charity. That’s what’s so wonderful about the Confederacy. It’s willing to examine your situation to find out what you have that it could buy.”
“What on earth would they want to buy from me?” Cordie narrowed her eyes.
“Information.”
“I don’t know anything.” Cordie felt extremely uncomfortable with Mrs. Surratt’s arm around her shoulders.
“You’re so modest. How sweet. Your brother works at the White House. He sees things. He hears things. The Confederacy pays to learn those things.”
“We won’t be spies.” Cordie stood; she had had enough.
“You’re so innocent.” Mrs. Surratt laughed. “It’s quite appealing. They’re playing word games with you. If they send people to Richmond, they call it surveillance, but when we southerners seek the truth, they call us spies.”
“It’s still spying.” Cordie turned her back to her. “I don’t even talk to Gabby.”
“Then how does he get his mending?”
“A White House soldier takes it,” she said grudgingly.
“Is he young?”
“He’s a private.”
“Appeal to his maternal needs. He can tell you—”
“I’m not his mother.” Cordie turned to look at her with steely eyes. “I’m not good at being devious.”
“You disappoint me.” Mrs. Surratt stiffened and stood. “On second thought, maybe I should charge you for your brother. After all, we’re saving space for him here, aren’t we? Space I could be renting to someone else.”
“Charge more?” Cordie held her breath. Gabby was not bringing in his salary, so there was not enough to pay more rent.
“And you’re selling these quilts. I didn’t know that. You’re making quite a living under my roof. I should charge more for that.”
“I can’t pay more,” she whispered.
“Then you’ll have to find another place to live, won’t you?”
Washington boardinghouses were filled; no rooms were available. Everybody knew that. What would she do? Cordie worried, as tears filled her eyes.
“Of course, if you were a friend of the Confederacy and asked your young soldier a few questions about the White House, perhaps I could reconsider.”
“Very well.” Cordie wiped her tear-stained cheeks. “I’ll try.”
“Bless you, my dear.” Mrs. Surratt kissed Cordie’s forehead. “You’ll save many, many lives.” Walking to the door, she turned to smile. “When will you see that dear young private?”
“Tonight. We’re going to watch the parade. I’ll give him Gabby’s trousers.”
“Good. Like I said, ask him a few questions.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Cordie hung her head as blankness covered her face.
“Thank you, my dear.” Mrs. Surratt reached for her change purse. “You look exhausted. Here’s money for the omnibus.” She dropped a few coins in Cordie’s hand. “There’s more where that came from, if you do your job well.”
As the door shut quietly, Cordie looked at the coins and sighed. Mrs. Surratt gave her only enough for the ride to the Executive Mansion and not back. Gathering her things together, Cordie left and, with apprehension, climbed on board the omnibus.

Previously in the novel: War Secretary Stanton holds the Lincolns captive under guard in the White House basement. Stanton selects Duff, an AWOL convict,to impersonate Lincoln. Duff learns how to conduct cabinet meetings. Stanton brings news of Gettysburg to the basement. Janitor Gabby’s uncle Sammy was killed.

Her large, watery blue eyes followed the flight of stairs, so far up, so steep, so forbidding. A deep sigh made its way through Cordie’s pale, wrinkled lips. Too many dying boys, too much moaning, she fretted, as she took her first step to ascend the boardinghouse stairs. The day was not over yet, because Cordie had agreed to join Jessie and Adam at the candlelight parade.
Finally reaching the top floor, Cordie breathed deeply before opening her bedroom door. And those trousers, she thought to herself, they had to be mended. Adam brought her a pair from Gabby, and they had to be fixed so he would have something proper to wear. In the room, the bed beckoned to her, but Cordie resisted; her duty to Gabby came first, so she sat, turned on her kerosene lamp, and proceeded to stitch the crotch of her brother’s worn blue pants.
Downstairs the front door opened, and Cordie heard Mrs. Surratt’s strident voice pierce the silence. After a few harsh words with Mrs. Edwards, the landlady stomped up the stairs. Cordie steeled herself as the steps neared her door.
“I’m here for the rent. It’s past due.” Mrs. Surratt swung open the door after sharply knocking once. She stopped and glared at the trousers on Cordie’s lap. “Those pants. Who do they belong to?”
“Gabby.”
“Gabby? Who’s Gabby?”
“My brother. He lives with me.”
“He lives here?” Mrs. Surratt went to the armoire to open it to see a rack of men’s rough shirts, a jacket, and another pair of slacks. “You mean he’s been living here all this time, and you haven’t paid his rent?”
“He hasn’t been sleeping here for almost a year.”
“Well, does he live here or not?”
“I guess not. But I always think of him and me living together. We help each other get by.”
“Then where is he living?”
“I—I don’t think I’m allowed to say.” Her eyes fluttered.
“When it comes to cheating me out of rent money you have to tell.”
“As long as it doesn’t go any further…”
“Get on with it.”
“The White House,” she whispered. “He—he’s the janitor.”
“Those Republicans make him work day and night?”
“Yes.” Cordie’s eyes went down.
“Those Republicans make everyone’s life miserable.” Mrs. Surratt’s face softened as she sat on the edge of the bed by Cordie’s chair. “Where are you from, dear?”
“New York City.”
“Ah, the gallant Irish. You know, they’re rioting this very moment against the infamous draft.” She smiled. “Were your parents from Ireland?”
“No,” Cordie replied. “They were born here. My parents never talked about where their folks were from.” She looked at Mrs. Surratt with curiosity. “Is Zook an Irish name?”
“I really don’t know what kind of name Zook is. It could be Irish.”
“Why do you care if I was Irish or not?” Cordie did not know why Mrs. Surratt’s questions irritated her. Perhaps it was because climbing all those stairs wore her out.
“Oh, I don’t care, really. It’s just I like the Irish, that’s all.”
“Why?” Cordie told herself not be so impatient with the woman. After all, she was making an attempt to be friendly.
“I suppose it’s their religion,” Mrs. Surratt replied in a flat tone.
“We weren’t much of anything particular.”
“Oh. We in Maryland follow the true faith, Roman Catholic. As do the Irish. The Irish in New York don’t want to be forced to fight against the South. The Pope sees this as a holy war against the Roman Catholic Church. The Northerners have no respect for the Pope.”
“Papa was a lawyer. He defended all kinds of poor people, Irish Catholics, German Jews, Gypsies. He even defended a man who didn’t believe in God at all.”
“But your father did believe in God?”
“Yes.”
“You’re confusing me. What side are you on?”
“We’re for the Union. Papa said slavery was wrong.”
“Oh.”
“My uncle, Samuel Zook, is a Union general.”
“You know, my dear, this war isn’t about slavery, but states’ rights.”
“Papa said states don’t have rights; people have rights.”
“As I was saying, this war’s about freedom, about the right to worship as you please.”
“Catholics get to go to church like anybody else,” Cordie firmly said.
“It’s obvious you’ve led a sheltered life. Religious intolerance surrounds us. You’ve only to open your eyes to see it.” She looked away, noticing the half-finished Gabby quilt on the bed. “What’s this?”
“A Gabby quilt. I used to make pretty ones, wedding ring, starbursts…”
“I loved to make starburst quilts. They sold well at the inn.”
“Good quilts sell for good money. These old things don’t go for much. The boys living here buy them. They don’t know better.”
“When my husband died, I didn’t have time to make quilts anymore.”
“Old age caught up with me. Then I started making these out of any old material I had around. These swatches are the last of Mama’s dresses. Then you sew old socks into the squares and sew the squares together in no particular pattern. I call them Gabby quilts because Gabby likes them.”