"To be plain, then," said Winifred, "he has asked me whether I have any objection to you as a mother. She was silent, the ghost of a fading smile passed from her lips. There is no need of your friend to kill you, imbecile, because I shall do so this minute. And she would have to go tomorrow. She could not be more than twenty; and though want and other suffering had done the work of time, had wasted her frame, and robbed her cheek of its bloom and roundness, they had not extinguished the lustre of her eyes, nor thinned her raven hair. She felt him sometimes at night as he called to her in her dreams. But he had always felt (he had never allowed himself to think of it) that the promptitude of their family was a little indelicate of her, and in a sense an intrusion. Hastily, he reached for the door. She stepped into his arms.
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