She had come to the end of her resources. Critically, she stared at her own features. Spare him!—pity me!" With this she arose, and, taking up the infant, was about to proceed down stairs, when she was alarmed by hearing the street-door opened, and the sound of heavy footsteps entering the house. "You have killed him," cried Winifred in alarm. . And they had an idea of what men were like behind all their nicety. She found herself mildly entertained by staring at the houses through the rain as she walked home, all cast in a gray blurry film noir gauze of rain. ‘You were supposed to be nursing him,’ Martha grumbled, ‘and helping him convalesce. I see that I am a beast—I beg your pardon, bête—and an imbecile, and an idiot. I trust that no unpleasant rumours will be circulated before the election, at any rate.
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