" "You may see the marks on the child yourself, if you choose, Sir," urged the widow. The winter of 1348 seemed to last an eternity, but the Pestilence struck in one day. It gave her great satisfaction to hear that Madame Chamberlain had spent a night in the county jail, even if the nocturnal activities picked right up again after two weeks. It's my way when I'm ruffled. I decline to waste a single second even in considering the ugly ones. It is not a dissipated face. "It's an ill wind that blows nobody good," thought the carpenter, turning his attention to the child, whose feeble struggles and cries proclaimed that, as yet, life had not been extinguished by the hardships it had undergone. She felt him as something solid and strong and trustworthy beyond measure. She was never able to trace the changes her attitude had undergone, from the time when she believed herself to be the pampered Queen of Fortune, the crown of a good man’s love (and secretly, but nobly, worshipping some one else), to the time when she realized she was in fact just a mannequin for her lover’s imagination, and that he cared no more for the realities of her being, for the things she felt and desired, for the passions and dreams that might move her, than a child cares for the sawdust in its doll.
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