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arm, or the children in the street, I always think of him and
how he would look at their age.”
She stopped talking for a moment.
“I did not think you felt it like that, Jenny,” said Heggen
gently. “It was sad for you, of course — I quite understood
that — but I thought, on the whole, it was better he was taken.
If I had known you were so distressed about it, I should have
come to see you.”
She did not answer, but went on in the same strain: “And
he died — such a tiny, tiny little thing. It is only selfishness
on my part to grudge him death before he had begun to feel
and to understand. He could only look at the light and cry
when he was hungry or wanted to be changed; he did not know
me even — not really, anyhow. Some vague glimpses of reason
had possibly begun to awaken in his little head, but, think of
it, he never knew that I was his mother.
“Never a name had he, poor darling, only mother’s
baby-boy, and I have nothing to remember him by, except just
material things.”
She lifted her hands as if holding the child to her heart,
then let them fall empty and lifeless on the table.
“I remember so distinctly my impression when I first touched
him, felt his skin against mine. It was so soft, a little damp —
the air had scarcely touched it yet, you see. People think a
newborn child is not nice to feel, and perhaps it is so when it
is not your own flesh and blood. And his eyes — they were
no special colour, only dark, but I think they would have been
grey-blue. A baby’s eyes are so strange — almost mysterious.
And his tiny head was so pretty, when he was feeding and
pressing his little nose against me. I could see the pulse
beating and the thin, downy hair; he had quite a lot of it — and
dark — when he was born.
“Oh, that little body of his! I can never think of anything
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