But _would_ she care?
His long-jawed, gaunt face was all aglow now, and he rubbed his hands
softly together, his thought sliding back evidently into some accustomed
track, one that gave him fresh pleasure, though it had been the same
these many years, through days of hammering and moulding and nights of
sleeping in cheap taverns or under market-stalls. When they were first
married, he used to bring her a peculiar sort of white shawl,--quite
outside of the Quaker dress, to be sure, but he liked it. She used to
look like a bride, freshly, every time she put one on. One of those
should be the first thing he bought her. Dr. Bowdler was not wrong: he
was a young man yet; they could enjoy life strongly and heartily, both
of them. But no more work: with a dull perception of the fact that his
strength was sapped out beyond the power of recuperation. That baby
(stopping before the picture) was like Rob, about the forehead. But Rob
was fairer, and had brown eyes and a snub-nose, like his mother.
Remembering how, down in the farm-house, she used to sit on the
front-porch step nursing the baby, while he smoked or read, in the
evenings: where they could see the salt marshes.
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