She was faint from hunger, her head spinning into dizziness, the blood madness readying for battle. “I would not have you go for anything,” she answered. Opening a pair of large black eyes, the child fixed them for an instant upon Wood, and then, alarmed by the light, uttered a low and melancholy cry, which, however, was speedily stilled by the caresses of his mother, towards whom he extended his tiny arms, as if imploring protection. He was beginning to think about her inordinately. A hush descended across the audience as instruments tuned, creating small ladders of fifths that collapsed abruptly, snatches of solos that disappeared and reappeared like gags in a house of mirrors. A handy knife, and a good tot of something sharp to clean out the wound. She drew her naked arms around herself. You may enjoy your pride, your arrogance—in a coffin.
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