His little fists, and nose, and forehead, even his little naked, crinkled feet, were thrust with all his feeble strength against his mother's bosom, as though he were striving to creep into some hole away from life.

There was a sort of dumb despair in that tiny pushing of his way back to the place whence he had come.

His head, covered with dingy down, quivered with his effort to escape.

He had been alive so little; that little had sufficed.

Martin put his pipe back into his mouth.
"This won't do, you know," he said.