Sheppard, who had again looked round towards her son, beheld a hand glance along the side of the woollendraper. Her mother had died when she was thirteen, her two much older sisters had married off—one submissively, one insubordinately; her two brothers had gone out into the world well ahead of her, and so she had made what she could of her father. "Take me, then," replied the widow. Come home alone. Some automaton within her produced in a quite unfamiliar voice the remark, “They’re playing football. "Why, so it is," she said, in mock astonishment. It is foolish, she murmured to herself, foolish. "And yet—but it is only part of the chain of ill-luck that seems wound around me.
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