“Not particularily, but—” And she went on with a piteous air: “I was thinking of the child. It was Gomez who wanted it done, you know. And when he wanted anything in those days—But it was horrible, I would never—if he went down on his knees to me now, I would never have it done again.” She looked at Mathieu with agonized eyes.

“They gave me a little parcel after the operation, and they said to me: ‘You can throw that down a drain.’ Down a drain! Like a dead rat! Mathieu,” she said, gripping his arm, “you don’t realize what you’re going to do.”

“And when you bring a child into the world, do you realize what you’re going to do?” asked Mathieu wrathfully.

A child: another conciousness, a little center-point of light that would flutter round and round, dashing against the walls, and never be able to escape.