Hope Wayne had rarely met her since the season at Saratoga when Fanny had captured her prize.

She saw that the black-eyed, clever, resolute girl of those days had grown larger and more pulpy, and was wrapped in a dingy morning wrapper.

Her hair was not smooth, her hands were not especially clean; she had that dull carelessness, or unconsciousness of personal appearance, which seemed to Hope only the parlor aspect of the dowdiness that had run entirely to seed in the sloppy servant girl upon the area steps.
Hope Wayne put out her hand, which Fanny listlessly took.

There was nothing very hard, or ferocious, or defiant in her manner, as Hope had expected--there was only a weariness and indifference, as if she had been worsted in some kind of struggle.

She did not even seem to be excited by seeing Hope Wayne in her house, but merely said, "Good-morning," and then sank quietly upon the sofa, as if she had said every thing she had to say.
"I came to ask you if you know any thing about Abel ?" said Hope.
"No; nothing in particular," replied Fanny; "I believe he's going to Congress; but I never see him or hear of him." "Doesn't Alfred see him ?" "He used to meet him at Thiel's; but Alfred doesn't go there much now.
It's too fine for poor gentlemen.