Pressing him close to her thin
bosom, she looked above his little dingy head at the two young people.
"I got my wrists like this last night, wrestling with him. He swore he'd
go and leave me, but I held him, I did. And don't you ever think that
I'll let him go to that young girl--not if he kills me first!"
With those words the passion in her face died down. She was again a
meek, mute woman.
During this outbreak, Thyme, shrinking, stood by the doorway with
lowered eyes. She now looked up at Martin, clearly asking him to
come away. The latter had kept his gaze fixed on Mrs. Hughs, smoking
silently. He took his pipe out of his mouth, and pointed with it at the
baby.
"This gentleman," he said, "can't stand too much of that."
In silence all three bent their eyes on the baby. His little fists, and
nose, and forehead, even his little naked, crinkled feet, were thrust
with all his feeble strength against his mother's bosom, as though he
were striving to creep into some hole away from life. There was a sort
of dumb despair in that tiny pushing of his way back to the place whence
he had come. His head, covered with dingy down, quivered with his effort
to escape. He had been alive so little; that little had sufficed. Martin
put his pipe back into his mouth.
"This won't do, you know," he said.
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