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"I don't know I didn't speak to him I--I was in a hurry"

She had turned her head Her eyes never wandered from that small

yellowish bundle Up to the last she had let it lie on the nurse's knee

She had not dared to take it; perhaps she felt she was unworthy He

followed her gaze

"He's very ill," said she "Look at him"

The nurse moved a fold of blanket froazed at Tyson's son He tried to speak

"Sh--sh--" whispered Mrs Nevill Tyson "He's sleeping"

"Dying, sir,"

her hold on the child Her face was stained with tears (She had loved

the baby before she loved Pinker Renation) Mrs Nevill Tyson's nostrils twitched; deep black rings

were round her eyes Passion and hunger were in them, but there were no

tears

And as Stanistreet looked from one woman to the other, he understood He

picked up the bundle and removed it to its mother's knee All her soul

passed into the look ith she thanked him Swinny, tear-stained but

inexorable, stood aloof, like rigid Justice, weighing her ently

She shook her head "No; he's not dying God isn't cruel He won't let

him die"