Her hair, which was cut in
prison, had grown again a little--to her neck, and could not
help curling. It made her look a child again--poor, piteous
child!--so did the little scarf, tied under her chin--and the
tiny proportions to which all her frame had shrunk.
"She lifted her face to mine, as I bent over her, kissed me,
and asked for you. You were brought, and I took you on my
knee, showing you pictures, to keep you quiet. But every
other minute, almost, your eyes looked away from the book to
her, with that grave considering look, as though a question
were behind the look, to which your little brain could not
yet give shape. My strange impression was that the question
was there--in the mind--fully formed, like the Platonic
'ideas' in heaven; but that, physically, there was no power
to make the word-copy that could have alone communicated it
to us. Your mother looked at you in return, intently--quite
still. When you began to get restless, I lifted you up to
kiss her; you were startled, perhaps, by the cold of her
face, and struggled away.
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