I came away at once, for really he
must be washed. You must excuse me. I can put it off no longer."
"I have wasted your time," she said feebly.
He walked sternly to the loggia and drew from it a large
earthenware bowl. It was dirty inside; he dusted it with a
tablecloth. Then he fetched the hot water, which was in a
copper pot. He poured it out. He added cold. He felt in
his pocket and brought out a piece of soap. Then he took up
the baby, and, holding his cigar between his teeth, began to
unwrap it. Miss Abbott turned to go.
"But why are you going? Excuse me if I wash him while
we talk."
"I have nothing more to say," said Miss Abbott. All she
could do now was to find Philip, confess her miserable
defeat, and bid him go in her stead and prosper better. She
cursed her feebleness; she longed to expose it, without
apologies or tears.
"Oh, but stop a moment!" he cried. "You have not seen
him yet."
"I have seen as much as I want, thank you."
The last wrapping slid off. He held out to her in his
two hands a little kicking image of bronze.
"Take him!"
She would not touch the child.
"I must go at once," she cried; for the tears--the wrong
tears--were hurrying to her eyes.
"Who would have believed his mother was blonde? For he
is brown all over--brown every inch of him. Ah, but how
beautiful he is! And he is mine; mine for ever. Even if he
hates me he will be mine. He cannot help it; he is made out
of me; I am his father.
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