"Heaven save us!" he cried, falling back in his chair.
Her appearance was a sufficient explanation of his astonishment. To say that she was ragged and dirty and forlorn, and as utterly unlike a little girl living in civilized society as any little girl could possibly be, would be but a poor description of her. Her face suggested that she had been lying with her head in a coal scuttle; she wore no hat or bonnet; her hair was matted; her frock reached just below her knees, and might have been picked out of a dust heap; she had no stockings; on her feet were two odd boots several sizes too large for her and quite worn out, one tied to her ankle with a piece of gray list, the other similarly secured with a piece of knotted twine. Her eyes glittered with preternatural sharpness; her cheek bones stuck out; her elbows were pointed and red; she was all
bone--literally all bone; there was not an ounce of flesh upon
her--not any part of her body that could be pinched with a sense of satisfaction. But the baby! What a contrast! Her head was round and chubby, and was covered with a mass of light curls; her hands were full of dimples; her face was puffed out with superabundant flesh; the calves of her legs were a picture. In respect of clothes she was no better off than Mrs. Hawkins' niece.
"Wot are yer staring at?" demanded the girl.
"At you, my child," replied Aaron with compassion in his voice.
"Let's know when yer done," retorted the girl, "and I'll tell yer wot I charge for it."
"And at baby," added Aaron.
"That'll be hextra. Don't say I didn't warn yer."
There were conflicting elements in the situation: its humor was undeniable, but it had its pathetic side. Aaron Cohen was swayed now by one emotion, now by another.
"So you are Mrs. Hawkins' niece?" he said, with a twinkle in his eyes.
"Yes, I am. Wot 'ave yer got to say agin it?"