For Violet persisted in her strange refusal, in spite of Ranny's remonstrances, his entreaties, his appeals.
"It's been trouble enough," she said, "without that."
She was sitting up in her chair before the bedroom fire. They were alone. The nurse was downstairs at her supper. The Baby lay between them in its cradle, wrapped in a white shawl. Ranny was watching it.
"I should have thought," he said, at last, "you couldn't have borne to let the little thing—"
But she cut that short. "Little thing! It's all very well for you. You haven't been through what I have; if you had, p'raps you'd feel as I do."
The Baby stirred in its shawl. Its eyes were still shut, but its lips began to curl open with a queer waving, writhing movement.
"What does it mean," said Ranny, "when it makes that funny face?"
"How should I know?" said Violet.
Little sounds, utterly helpless and inarticulate, came now from the cradle.