She practiced swaddling on a doll, pretending to pat the head of her imaginary infant boy. Diane spooned warm apple-rhubarb pie onto the girl’s plates, topping each with scoops of ice cream. She took up one of her father’s novels and put it down again, fretted up to her own room for some work, sat on her bed and meditated upon the room that she was now really abandoning forever, and returned at length with a stocking to darn. Unless it was a jewel or locket of some kind. ” “Of course,” his friend answered. The girl suppressed a chuckle that would have been inexplicable. His course, however, was no longer interrupted, and he crept on.
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