Her white pale face looked neither bad nor good, only weary, weary to death.

On her withered white arms blue veins ran like dark cords, her hands hung feebly down, and in them hung the child.

If a wind were to rise, I thought to myself, it would blow her away, and the little one with her.
"The auctioneer asked for a bid.

All were silent, for the dumb shadow was of no use for work; she was half-dead, and a burial costs money.
"So passed several minutes.

Then the auctioneer stepped up to her, and gave her a blow with his whip, that she might rouse herself up, and appear less miserable to the buyers.