It seemed as if the passion within her had cleared her eyes.

They never had seen George as they now saw him.
Was that her son?
Was it that little priggish, insignificant fellow that she had made a god of?
He was dull, commonplace! Satisfied to sit dumb in the background and take orders from those bourgeois French Jews! The play went on, but she saw nothing but George and his wife.
There was the result of all her drudgery! The hot summers of work in the filthy poultry yards; the grinding out of poor jokes; the coarse, cheap underclothes (she used to cry when she put them on, she hated them so).

Years and years of it all; and for that cold, selfish fop! His mother saw him leave the box, and knew that he was coming.
"Oh, good-evening, George!" she said gayly, as he opened the door.

"A wonderful scene, wasn't it?
I have always wished to see Irving in 'Hamlet.'" "This is 'Shylock,'" he said gravely, and turned to speak to the others.

They welcomed him eagerly, and made room for him.