She had made her way since then a little further into the heart of life. She spent the morning up to ten in writing a series of unsuccessful letters to Ramage, which she tore up unfinished; and finally she desisted and put on her jacket and went out into the lamp-lit obscurity and slimy streets. ’ ‘Poor sort of a mother,’ Martha said with bitterness. We’ll have some buttered toast. Don't suppose," she added, with a scornful glance at her helpmate, "that I would pay him the compliment of thinking he could possibly be the father of such a boy as you.
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