“Yes, she is pretty, for a little girl.”
And the widow heaved a sigh, which seemed charged with life-long regret.
“You might have had one yourself.”
She hung down her head.
“How?”
He gave her such a look that she grew purple, as if at the sensation of a rough caress; but, immediately fanning herself with her pocket-handkerchief:
“You have let the opportunity slip, my dear.”
“I don’t quite understand.” And without rising he drew closer to her.
She remained looking down at him for some time; then smiling, with moist eyes: