She traveled through back yards and quiet side streets on her way home, careful to avoid the main thoroughfares, fraught as they were with people in cars who would recognize her person or notice her dress. She recognized the cloth at once, waylaid him, and with that directness of speech particularly hers she explained what she wanted. “Thank you. "My portrait!" echoed Jack. ” “It would be very kind of you,” she declared. "Open my heart, Father of Mercy!" she murmured, in a humble tone, and with downcast looks, "and make me sensible of the error of my ways. He probably imagines himself to be a thousand times worse off than he actually is.
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