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the doctor, who had been sent for from Warnemünde, at last
held her son in his hands.
VI
Jenny’s son lived six weeks — exactly fourty-four days
and a half, she said bitterly to herself, thinking again
and again of the short time she had felt really happy.
She did not cry for the first days after his death, but she
could not leave the dead child, and sat moaning deep down in
her throat and taking it in her arms to caress it:
“Darling little boy — mother’s pretty little boy, you must
not go — I cannot let you go. Can’t you see I want you so?”
The child was tiny and feeble at birth, but Jenny and Mrs.
Schlessinger had both thought he was thriving and making
good progress. Then one morning he fell ill, and by midday it
was all over.
After the funeral she started to cry, and could not stop; for
weeks afterwards she sobbed unceasingly night and day. She
fell ill herself too; inflammation of the breasts developed, and
Mrs. Schlessinger had to send for the doctor, who performed
an operation. The despair of her soul, together with the pains
of her body, gave her many a dreadful, delirious night.
Mrs. Schlessinger slept in the adjoining room, and on hearing
her cries of agony, rushed in and sat down by the bed,
comforting her, stroking her thin, clammy hands with her own fat,
warm ones, and coaxing and lecturing her a little. It was
God’s will, and was probably much better for the boy and for
her too — still so young as she was. Mrs. Schlessinger had
lost two children herself — little Bertha when she was two
years old, and Wilhelm at fourteen, such a dear boy too — yet
they were born in wedlock and should have been the support
and comfort of her old age. But this little one would only have
been a chain round the feet of the Fräulein who was so young
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