So Ruth took another step toward her destination, which we in our vanity call destiny. ’ ‘What?’ squeaked Kimble. O God! O God!" And he appeared convulsed with agony. She was dressed in a tattered black stuff gown, discoloured by various stains, and intended, it would seem, from the remnants of rusty crape with which it was here and there tricked out, to represent the garb of widowhood, and held in her arms a sleeping infant, swathed in the folds of a linsey-woolsey shawl. She wasn’t sure of herself when she said it. He beamed a little as she disappeared into the orchestra room, a cacophony of tuning instruments. But, on the bursting of that bubble, his hopes vanished with it.
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