She made a few protests, a few excuses for her action in accepting him, a few lame explanations, but he did not heed them or care for them. “Yes. She snatched about in her mind. 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 don’t wear a dinner coat with a flower in your button-hole, or last night’s shirt, or very glossy boots, nor do you haunt the drawing-room in the evening, or play at being musical. Marina doted over her pregnant daughter, adorned in fine brocades, reassuring her that it was certain to be a either a baby boy or a girl of such great beauty she would eclipse them both. He was safe, out of the beaten track, at last really comparable to the needle in the haystack. Through that she had to go. .
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