She walked down the station approach, past the neat, obtrusive offices of the coal merchant and the house agent, and so to the wicket-gate by the butcher’s shop that led to the field path to her home. ” “I don’t see why I shouldn’t. He played for an hour—Grieg, Chopin, Rubenstein, Liszt, crashing music. The poor widow was thrown into an agony of distress on learning that a robbery had been committed, in which her son (for she could not doubt that Jack was one of the boys,) was implicated; nor was her anxiety alleviated by Mrs. And now she comprehended that the man (she had never known him by any name) knew she had surprised the look and had not resented it. Pipes were lighted; and Mr. It’s—it’s a social difference. But her mind was ruffled, and its mirror-like surface of satisfaction was not easily restored.
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