The child was noisily fighting for breath. He gasped, writhed in her lap, struggled desperately for air, and, at last, lay panting. She exposed him to the doctor’s gaze—a dull-eyed, scrawny, ugly babe: such as mothers wish to hide from sight.
“He’ve always been like that,” she said. “He’s wonderful sick. I’ve fetched un here t’ be cured.”
“A pretty child,” said the doctor.
’Twas a wondrous kind lie—told with such perfect dissimulation that it carried the conviction of truth.
“What say?” she asked, leaning forward.
“A pretty child,” the doctor repeated, very distinctly.
“They don’t say that t’ Bowsprit Head, zur.”
“Well—I say it!”
“I’ll tell un so!” she exclaimed, joyfully. “I’ll tell un you said so, zur, when I gets back t’ Bowsprit Head. For nobody—nobody, zur—ever said that afore—about my baby!”
The child stirred and complained. She lifted him from her lap—rocked him—hushed him—drew him close, rocking him all the time.