Her dress was
lamentable. An old silk, of a color now unrecognizable, clung to
her figure in those limp folds which are so eloquent of misery.
The creases where it had been folded were worn nearly through, and
the edges of the skirt had decayed into a species of irregular
fringe, which was clotted and discolored with mud. Her shoes--
which were but half concealed by this scanty garment--were
shapeless and soft with moisture. Her hands were hidden under the
ends of the shawl which covered her head and hung down over a bust,
the outlines of which, although angular, seemed to possess grace.
Poverty, when partially shrouded, seldom fails to interest: witness
the statue of the Veiled Beggar, by Monti.
"In what manner was your father hurt?" I asked, in a tone
considerably softened from the one in which I put my first
question.
"He blew himself up, sir, and is terribly wounded."
"Ah! He is in some factory, then?"
"No, sir, he is a chemist."
"A chemist? Why, he is a brother professional. Wait an instant,
and I will slip on my coat and go with you. Do you live far from
here?"
"In the Seventh Avenue, not more than two blocks from the end of
this street.
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