"Want him back!" she cried.
"Then," said he, his voice soft, grave, "take care!"
"Want him back?" she repeated, beginning, now, by habit, to tear at her nails. "I got to have him back! He's mine, ain't he? Didn't I bear him? Didn't I nurse him? Wasn't it me that—that—made him? He's my kid, I tell you—mine! And I want him back! Oh, I want him so!"
The man entered; but the woman seemed not to know it. He regarded her compassionately.
"That there curate ain't got no right to him," she complained. "He didn't have nothing to do with the boy. It was only me and Dick. What's he sneaking around here for—taking Dick's boy away? The boy's half mine and half Dick's. The curate ain't got no share. And now Dick's dead—and he's all mine! The curate ain't got nothing to do with it. We don't want no curate here. I raised that boy for myself. I didn't do it to give him to no curate. What right's he got coming around here—getting a boy he didn't have no pain to bear or trouble to raise? I tell you I got that boy. He's mine—and I want him!"
"But you give the boy to the curate, Millie!"
"No, I didn't!" she lied. "He took the boy. He come sneaking around here making trouble. I didn't give him no boy. And I want him back," she screamed, in a gust of passion. "I want my boy back!"
A rumble of thunder—failing, far off—came from the sea.
"Millie," the acrobat persisted, "you said you wasn't fit to bring him up."
"I ain't," she snapped. "But I don't care. He's mine—and I'll have him."