hesitancy she could never quite overcome in pronouncing this assumed title.
“Coovenden? Ah, it is not a name that I recognize—and yet there is something,—I know not what, which stirs me!” And he went away shaking his head thoughtfully. On her way home Jacqueline stopped at the public market to purchase what scarce supply of provisions she was able to obtain.
“But this is a miserable little cabbage!” she expostulated mildly to the huckster who served her. “And see! this mutton-bone has scarce any meat upon it. ’Twill be watery soup that is made from this mess!”
“And lucky thou art to have any soup at all!” answered the market-woman. “I tell thee, girl, the time is coming when we shall be glad to eat the grass that grows in the streets, and that’s not far distant, either. I, for one would gladly see the gates opened to the Spaniards. They are better at least than slow starvation!” Jacqueline shrank
