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. She sat there, a mark for boulevarders, the unconscious object of numberless wondering glances. She was too wrapped up in the sheer joy of playing again; it had 201 been intimate, masturbatory. Their heads touched again, their arms tightened. Here was a little corner of the past—a tragic corner.
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