But Mrs.
King's words stuck: she pushed them forcibly away from her mind: they
would not go, and sank deep down; they came back in dreams, tormenting.
She dreamed often of a little child starving and cold out in the Domain,
while the southerly winds lashed rain at him--dreams of a little boy
with Louis's brown eyes--a little boy who gnawed his nails--and
stammered--and grew old--and wavered--and shook in drink delirium.
She refused the dreams house-room in her conscious thoughts. She looked
at the shining billy and big enamelled mugs they had bought that day, at
the bright brown leather straps that smelt so pleasantly new, fastened
round two grey and two brown blankets. Louis came in and made her strap
the two blankets on her back to see if they tired her. In spite of the
heat of the day she scarcely felt them.
"This is what they call Matilda," he told her, weighing the swag in his
hand.
"I can carry you both if you get tired," said she, looking from Matilda
to him.
She had asked her uncle for ten pounds. He characteristically made no
comments about her omission to mention a husband when she saw him at
Melbourne, and remarked that they would be very pleased to see her and
her husband any time at Wooratonga. When he proved his unquestioning
kindness she wished she had not had to ask him for money.
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