"Not he. Catch him dying. He'll only howl more infernally than he's howled before. That's all he'll do. Do him good too—teach him that he can't get everything he wants in this vile world. But whatever he does I'm not going to have you sacrificed to him."
"I'm not sacrificed. I don't mind it."
"Well, then, I mind it. That's enough. I hate the little beast coming into my room at night."
"He needn't come. I can go to him."
"All right. If you want to make an invalid scarecrow of yourself before your time, it's not my business. Only don't come to me for sympathy, that's all."
With one of her passionate movements, she snatched the child from her breast, carried him upstairs screaming and laid him on her bed. When the nurse came she found him writhing and wailing, and his mother on her knees beside the bed, her face hidden in the counterpane.
"Take him away," sobbed Mrs. Nevill Tyson.
"Ma'am?" said the nurse.
"Take him away, I tell you. I won't—I can't nurse him. It—it makes me ill."
And forthwith she went off into a fit of hysterics.