"He is a child. Say that he is a baby. He is all that I have. You and he are all—everything! Say, Angele, that he is a child! Only yesterday, you remember—the long curls? The velvet suit? Surely it was yesterday. Say, Angele, that he—is—still—a—little—one."
The girl threw back her head and laughed. The shadows lay like long, dark fingers on the white of her throat.
"Of course. He is young—too young even now when they take the young. You have no need to worry, Maman. Maman—what is it?"
She had seen the sudden, far-away look in the woman's eyes.
She had seen her head stretch forward, the chin pointing, the mouth a little open.
"Maman—"
The woman's hand reached out in a gesture commanding silence.
"The voices," the woman whispered. "They have been after me the whole day. The voices. They—keep—coming—and—coming—to—me—I have not been able to think—for the voices—"
"Maman—"
"You say 'yes.' You are coming—nearer—nearer. No—I cannot see. But hear—Mais, it is good now! You speak distinctly. Of course I thank you for speaking so beautifully. You—say—you—want—want—"