"What are you goin' to do with it?"
"Kill it!"
Al considered this a moment. Things were bad enough now, without Claribel murdering the child and making things worse.
"I wouldn't do that," he said soothingly. "You can put it somewhere, can't you? Maybe Rosie'll know."
"I don't want it to live."
For the first time he realised her despair. She turned on him her tormented eyes, and he quailed.
"I'll find a place for it, kid," he said. "It's mine, too. I guess I'm it, all right."
"Yours!" She half rose on her elbow, weak as she was. "Yours! Didn't you throw me over when you found I was going to have it? Yours! Did you go through hell for twenty-four hours to bring it into the world? I tell you, it's mine—mine! And I'll do what I want with it. I'll kill it, and myself too!"
"You don't know what you're saying!"
She had dropped back, white and exhausted.