Jimmie forced, with feverish rapidity, the grease-enveloped pieces between his wounded lips.

Maggie, with side glances of fear of interruption, ate like a small pursued tigress.
The mother sat blinking at them.

She delivered reproaches, swallowed potatoes and drank from a yellow-brown bottle.

After a time her mood changed and she wept as she carried little Tommie into another room and laid him to sleep with his fists doubled in an old quilt of faded red and green grandeur.

Then she came and moaned by the stove.