She sat on the edge of her bed and looked about her, at her room, at the row of black-covered books and the pig’s skull. “We have scarcely mentioned your name. I fancy that this is a little more than playing at Bohemianism. I know I am undeserving of your bounty; but if I were to tell you what hardships I have undergone—to what frightful extremities I have been reduced—and to what infamy I have submitted, to earn a scanty subsistence for this child's sake, —if you could feel what it is to stand alone in the world as I do, bereft of all who have ever loved me, and shunned by all who have ever known me, except the worthless and the wretched,—if you knew (and Heaven grant you may be spared the knowledge!) how much affliction sharpens love, and how much more dear to me my child has become for every sacrifice I have made for him,—if you were told all this, you would, I am sure, pity rather than reproach me, because I cannot at once consent to a separation, which I feel would break my heart. He talked with his manner gentle and kindly. . . Hurry. That's one of the troubles with young folks: they take themselves so seriously. The same look she had often seen in the eyes of the drunken beachcombers her father had brought home, and it had not filled her with horror.
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