Presently Morel got up and came craning his neck towards her.
"What has it done to thee, lass ?" he asked, in a very wretched, humble tone.
"You can see what it's done," she answered.
He stood, bending forward, supported on his hands, which grasped his legs just above the knee.

He peered to look at the wound.

She drew away from the thrust of his face with its great moustache, averting her own face as much as possible.

As he looked at her, who was cold and impassive as stone, with mouth shut tight, he sickened with feebleness and hopelessness of spirit.

He was turning drearily away, when he saw a drop of blood fall from the averted wound into the baby's fragile, glistening hair.