burnt leg of mutton, and mashed potatoes.

Parent sat by the side of the child, very much upset and distressed at
all that had happened. He gave the boy his dinner, and endeavored to eat
something himself, but he could only swallow with an effort, as his
throat felt paralyzed. By degrees he was seized with an insane desire to
look at Limousin, who was sitting opposite to him, making bread pellets,
to see whether George was like him, but he did not venture to raise his
eyes for some time. At last, however, he made up his mind to do so, and
gave a quick, sharp look at the face which he knew so well, although he
almost fancied that he had never examined it carefully. It looked so
different to what he had imagined. From time to time he looked at
Limousin, trying to recognize a likeness in the smallest lines of his
face, in the slightest features, and then he looked at his son, under the
pretext of feeding him.

Two words were sounding in his ears: "His father! his father! his
father!" They buzzed in his temples at every beat of his heart. Yes, that
man, that tranquil man who was sitting on the other side of the table,
was, perhaps, the father of his son, of George, of his little George.
Parent left off eating; he could not swallow any more. A terrible pain,
one of those attacks of pain which make men scream, roll on the ground,
and bite the furniture, was tearing at his entrails, and he felt inclined
to take a knife and plunge it into his stomach. He started when he heard
the door open. His wife came in. "I am hungry," she said; "are not you,
Limousin?"

He hesitated a little, and then said: "Yes, I am, upon my word." She had
the leg of mutton brought in again. Parent asked himself "Have they had
dinner? Or are they late because they have had a lovers' meeting?"