Her voice has risen. Her cheek is flushed. A pulse beats, briefly—very fast—in the lid of her eye. She puts her hand to it, then drinks again, and again wipes her mouth.
''That''s what she said,'' she says, more quietly. ''That''s what she said. And as she says it, all the infants that are lying about the house seem to hear her, and all start up crying at once. They all sound the same, when you ain''t their mother. They all sounded the same to her, anyway. I had got her to the stairs, just outside that door''—she tilts her head, Richard shifts his pose and the door gives a creak—''and now, she stops. She looks at me, and I see what she''s thinking, and my heart goes cold. "We can''t!" I say. "Why can''t we?" she answers. "You have said yourself, my daughter shall be brought up a lady. Why not let some other little motherless girl have that, in her place—poor thing, she shall have the grief o