Those rosy feet saved Herminia.
As she clasped them in her hands--tiny feet, tender feet--she felt
she had now something left to live for,--her baby, Alan's baby, the
baby with a future, the baby that was destined to regenerate
humanity.
So warm! So small! Alan's soul and her own, mysteriously blended.
Still, even so, she couldn't find it in her heart to give any
joyous name to dead Alan's child. Dolores she called it, at Alan's
grave. In sorrow had she borne it; its true name was Dolores.
XIII.
It was a changed London to which Herminia returned. She was
homeless, penniless, friendless. Above all she was declassee.
The world that had known her now knew her no more. Women who had
smothered her with their Judas kisses passed her by in their
victorias with a stony stare. Even men pretended to be looking the
other way, or crossed the street to avoid the necessity for
recognizing her. "So awkward to be mixed up with such a scandal!"
She hardly knew as yet herself how much her world was changed
indeed; for had she not come back to it, the mother of an
illegitimate daughter? But she began to suspect it the very first
day when she arrived at Charing Cross, clad in a plain black dress,
with her baby at her bosom.
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