His yells and gurgles became mechanical--functions of
the tortured flesh rather than true notes of indignation and
despair. He was conscious of a horrid tumbling. Then his
arm was pulled a little too roughly, and everything was
quiet at last.
"But your son is dead, Gino. Your son is dead, dear
Gino. Your son is dead."
The room was full of light, and Miss Abbott had Gino by
the shoulders, holding him down in a chair. She was
exhausted with the struggle, and her arms were trembling.
"What is the good of another death? What is the good of
more pain?"
He too began to tremble. Then he turned and looked
curiously at Philip, whose face, covered with dust and foam,
was visible by the stove. Miss Abbott allowed him to get
up, though she still held him firmly. He gave a loud and
curious cry--a cry of interrogation it might be called.
Below there was the noise of Perfetta returning with the
baby's milk.
"Go to him," said Miss Abbott, indicating Philip. "Pick
him up. Treat him kindly."
She released him, and he approached Philip slowly. His
eyes were filling with trouble. He bent down, as if he
would gently raise him up.
"Help! help!" moaned Philip. His body had suffered too
much from Gino. It could not bear to be touched by him.
Gino seemed to understand. He stopped, crouched above
him. Miss Abbott herself came forward and lifted her friend
in her arms.
"Oh, the foul devil!" he murmured. "Kill him! Kill him
for me.
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