She dropped a flower—it’s in my pocket-book now. I'm used to insult as I am to misfortune, and am grown callous to both; but I'm not used to compassion, and know not how to take it. 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. "Her blood be upon her own head, then," replied Rowland, sternly. The jealous burn at his eyes subsided and his finger came up. He poured a pinch of tobacco into his palm and sniffed.
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