Vorsack looked pale and pink. He carried a cane and a silk hat with a mourning-band in one gray-gloved hand; his frock-coat and trousers were admirable; his handsome face, his black mustache, his prominent brow conveyed an eager solicitude. "I'm sure little Jack has but one friend beside myself, in the world, and that's more than I would have ventured to say for him yesterday. It was you who were so much amazed that I did not try—the music hall stage here. Besides," added he, opening the shawl in which the infant was wrapped, and throwing the light of the candle full upon its sickly, but placid features, "it's sinful to repine while you've a child like this to comfort you. “I’m not a good woman. ‘Grace à dieu, he breathes still. From then on he was Ruth's dog. But I do not even care if I am absurd.
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