. His curiosity, his literary instincts, had been submerged by the recurring thought of the fool he had made of himself. I hate what I am. She was dressed in a tattered black stuff gown, discoloured by various stains, and intended, it would seem, from the remnants of rusty crape with which it was here and there tricked out, to represent the garb of widowhood, and held in her arms a sleeping infant, swathed in the folds of a linsey-woolsey shawl. The distinction lay chiefly in the right to pat their heads. It was then for the first time she remembered that she had said nothing to her sister of the man in the hospital. All right! I’m off.
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