She was sorry for Miss Quincey; but all her youth, unfettered and unfeeling, revolted from the bond of friendship.

So she only stooped and laced up the shabby boots, and fastened the thin cape by its solitary button.

The touch of Miss Quincey's clothes thrilled her with a pang of pity, and she could have wept over the unutterable pathos of her hat.

In form and substance it was a rock, beaten by the weather; its limp ribbons clung to it like seaweed washed up and abandoned by the tide.

When Miss Quincey's head was inside it the hat seemed to become one with Miss Quincey; you could not conceive anything more melancholy and forlorn.