To be ill and helpless. "Aye—to pretend to her that you don't care. "Oh!" she gasped. The hansom drove off. Daily contact with actual human beings all the more inclined her toward the imaginative. She sat on the edge of the bed —the wardress was too busy with the flood of arrivals that day to discover that she had it down—and her skin was shivering from the contact of these garments. She was dressed in a tattered black stuff gown, discoloured by various stains, and intended, it would seem, from the remnants of rusty crape with which it was here and there tricked out, to represent the garb of widowhood, and held in her arms a sleeping infant, swathed in the folds of a linsey-woolsey shawl. “I—I am sorry—I didn’t explain. It was his particular hobby, and the leisure he had to apply to it had given him a remarkable appraising eye. ‘Yes, but quite my own fault. There he sat, cheerfully friendly in his sex’s freedom—the man she loved, the one man she cared should unlock the way to the wide world for her imprisoned feminine possibilities, and he seemed regardless that she stifled under his eyes; he made a jest of all this passionate insurgence of the souls of women against the fate of their conditions.
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