"I—Son—did somebody strike? Hit? Strange. I—I must have been hurt. Son, am I bleeding?" And looked down, clasping her hand to the bosom of her decent black-silk basque.
"Son, I—It was a good verdict, not? I—couldn't have stood it—if—if it wasn't. I—Something—It was good, not?"
"Yes, mother, yes."
"Don't—don't let that boy get away, son. I think—those tempers—I can help—him. You see, I know—how to handle—Somehow I—"
"Yes, mother, only now you must sit quietly—"
"Promise me, son, you won't let him get away without I see him?"
"Yes, dear, only please now—a moment—quiet—"
You see, the judge was very tired, and, looking down at the spot where her hand still lay at her bosom as if to press down a hurt, the red of her same obsession shook and shook him.
Somehow it seemed to him, too, that her dear heart was bleeding.