The procession halted; Lizzie checked her babble and stood staring, with an arm about Joey's neck.
"Let me see the child." Lizzie stared, broke into a silly, triumphant laugh, and thrust the child forward against the carriage step.

The poor waif, drenched, dazed, tottering without his crutch, caught at the plated handle for support.

Honoria gazed down on him with eyes which took slow and pitiless account of the deformed little body, the shrunken, puny limbs.
"Thank you.

So--this--is what my husband died for.

Drive on, please." Her eyes, as she lifted them to give the order, rested for a moment on Taffy--with how much scorn he cared not, could he have leapt and intercepted Lizzie's retort.
"And why not?
A son's a son--curse you!--though he was your man!" It seemed she did not hear; or hearing, did not understand.