shrimps enable her to gratify, and "the simple life" cost her more than
all the others put together.

Heaven had blessed them with one child, and that child was called Nancy.
Nancy, her mother always said with pride, was old for her age, and, as
her age was only just five, that remark was quite true. Nancy Ross was
old for any age. Had she herself, one is compelled when considering her
to wonder, any conception during those first months of the things that
were going to be made out of her, and had she, perhaps at the very
commencement of it all, some instinct of protest and rebellion? Poor
Nancy! The tragedy of her whole case was now none other than that she
hadn't, here at five years old in March Square, the slightest picture of
what she had become, nor could she, I suppose, have imagined it possible
for her to become anything different. Nancy, in her own real and naked
person, was a small child with a good flow of flaxen hair and light-blue
eyes. All her features were small and delicate, and she gave you the
impression that if you only pulled a string or pushed a button somewhere
in the middle of her back you could evoke any cry, smile or exclamation
that you cared to arouse. Her eyes were old and weary, her attitude
always that of one who had learnt the ways of this world, had found them
sawdust, but had nevertheless consented still to play the game. Just as
the house was filled with little gilt chairs and china cockatoos, so was
Nancy arrayed in ribbons and bows and lace. Mrs. Munty had, one must
suppose, surveyed during certain periods in her life certain real
emotions rather as the gaping villagers survey the tiger behind his bars
in the travelling circus.

The time had then come when she put these emotions away from her as
childish things, and determined never to be faced with any of them
again. It was not likely, then, that she would introduce Nancy to any of