"What nice noises it makes," said Ranny. He was stooping by the cradle, touching the Baby's soft cheek with his finger.
"Look at it," he said.
But Violet would not look.
The Baby's face puckered and grew red. Its body writhed and stiffened. It broke into a cry that frightened him.
"Oh, Lord!" said Ranny, "do you think I've hurt it? Hadn't you better take it up or something?"
But Violet did not take it up. He looked at her in astonishment. She looked at him, and her face was sullen.
The Baby screamed high.
Ranny put his arm under the small warm thing and lifted it up out of its cradle. He had some idea of laying it on its mother's lap.
The Baby stopped screaming.
Ranny held it, with the nape of its absurdly loose and heavy head supported on his left wrist, and its little soft hips pressed into the hollow of his right hand. And as he held it he was troubled with a compassion and a tenderness unlike anything he had ever known before. For the Baby's helplessness was unlike anything he had ever known.