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Updated: May 13, 2025
With fumbling hands Ruan slipped his signet-ring on the ugly, work-worn finger of the woman who was at last his wife.
"Dear Lord," she prayed, clasping her work-worn hands, "help her to find her money, but if anyone did steal it, give him the strength to confess it, dear Lord. Amen." Mrs. Motherwell, downstairs, was having a worse time than Pearl. She could not make herself believe that Pearl had stolen the money, and yet no one had had a chance to take it except Pearl, or Tom, and that, of course, was absurd.
So Lady Darcy gloated over every detail of her daughter's beauty, and thought day and night of her hair, her complexion, her figure, striving still to satisfy her poor tired soul with promises of future success, and never dreaming for a moment that the prize which seemed to elude her grasp had been gained long ago by the vicar's wife, with her old-fashioned dress and work-worn hands.
The little work-worn hands were folded loosely. They were resting a moment before taking up the labour of the new, untried life. Drew glanced down as the two came in, and when he saw Joyce he started, and leaned forward. He tried to take his eyes from that pale, exquisite face, but could not. It moved him powerfully not only by its beauty, but by its expression of entranced expectation.
He took the two work-worn hands in his and drew her nearer him. "I'm your lover before everything," he answered. "When will you come to me, Magda?" "No, no," she said whisperingly. "I mustn't come. You'll never never quite forgive me. Some day the past would come between us again you'll never forget it all." "No," he replied steadily. "Perhaps not. Consequences cannot be evaded.
But, I was again taken and condemned." "If I may ride with you, Citizen Evremonde, will you let me hold your hand? I am not afraid, but I am little and weak, and it will give me more courage." As the patient eyes were lifted to his face, he saw a sudden doubt in them, and then astonishment. He pressed the work-worn, hunger-worn young fingers, and touched his lips.
Mother Douglas opened her eyes, turned them that way; infinite weariness marked the glance. Her left hand resumed again its vague groping, the work-worn fingers plucking at the coverlet.
He lay still on his back, swathed like a mummy, his thin peasant-face all wrinkled and brown, with the big nose and grey beard emerging from the white bandages. Outside the sheet you could see his right hand, rough and work-worn; a joint of the middle-finger was missing but that did not matter, it was a peace injury.
Her broad back was bent; her hands as they shifted the infant tenderly were knotted and work-worn. Mavity Bence was a widow, living at home with her father, Gideon Himes; she had one child left, a daughter; but the clothing for which she had sent was an outfit made for a son, the posthumous offspring of his father; and the babe had not lived long enough to wear it.
But I have known "Hark, the herald angels sing," wheezily chanted by fog-filled throats, and accompanied, hopelessly out of tune, by a cornet and a flute, bring a great look of gladness to a work-worn face. To her it was a message of hope and love, making the hard life taste sweet.
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