She was very expensive, but, like the flowers on the table and the spotless damask and the lace in Gabriella's sleeves, she was one of her mother's luxuries to be paid for by additional hours of work and thought.
"Wasn't Archibald with you ?" inquired Gabriella, while she pushed the chairs into place and tidied the room.
"He stopped at the library.

There's his ring now.

I'll open the door." She ran out, and Gabriella, with the tablecloth in her hand, stood waiting for Archibald to enter.

In her eager expectancy, in the wistful brightness of her eyes, in the tender quivering of her lips, she was like a girl who is awaiting a lover.

Every evening, after her day's work, she greeted her son with the same passionate tenderness.