It lay flat on its
back, its eyes gazing up at the ceiling, its pinched face in high light
against the dull background. Now and then it would fight the air with
its little fists or kick its toes above its head.
The girl took from the kennel a broken paper box and, returning with it,
knelt beside the child and began arranging its wardrobe, the two
negresses watching her listlessly. Not much of a wardrobe--only a
ragged shawl, some socks, a worsted cap, a pair of tiny shoes, and a
Canton-flannel wrapper, once white. This last had little arms and a
short waist. The skirt was long enough to tuck around her baby's feet
when she carried it.
I steadied myself by one of the musket-barrels, watched her while she
folded the few pitiful garments, waited until she had guided the
shrunken arms into the sleeves of the soiled wrapper and had buttoned it
over the baby's chest. Then, when the lump in my throat was about to
stop my breathing, I said:
"Will you come here, please, to the grating? I want to speak to you.
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