Sheppard, who had again looked round towards her son, beheld a hand glance along the side of the woollendraper. Each time a daughter had been born to him he had concealed his chagrin with great tenderness and effusion from his wife, and had sworn unwontedly and with passionate sincerity in the bathroom. Her little bedsitting-room was like a lair, and she went out from it into this vast, dun world, with its smoke-gray houses, its glaring streets of shops, its dark streets of homes, its orange-lit windows, under skies of dull copper or muddy gray or black, much as an animal goes out to seek food. I’m sorry Lucy. She could feel his warm little body trying to snuggle into her, trying to wriggle loose of his swaddling cloth. He did not look up, so he did not know that in her other hand she held a glass of wine. Sheppard, raising herself, and looking at him as if her life depended upon the answer.
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