Daff's words about the cookies were partially lost to him, although he was looking at the basket as though he was listening. Noble's attention had instead been caught by the items in her hand.

Booties, for small little feet — in a basket that had only been meant for Daff, originally. The thought that Mrs. Potts had knitted them prematurely was easily and immediately discarded; Daft's mother was, to every story he'd ever heard, exacting. She wouldn't have knit booties early, lest their presence make Daff worried about her chances. And he'd thought it himself: she looked a little different.

There was a faint redness of something on his face. Embarrassment, maybe. "Congratulations," Noble said, with a nod towards the booties — he forced his motion to be fluid, because he had no right to be jealous that Grimstone was having the life Noble ought to have had.