The pain in her body came up, wave after wave, burning. It swelled,
tightening, stretching out her wounded flesh.

She knew that the little man they called the doctor was really Mr.
Hancock. They oughtn't to have let him in. She cried out. "Take him away.
Don't let him touch me;" but nobody took any notice.

"It isn't right," she said. "He oughtn't to do it. Not to _any_
woman. If it was known he would be punished."

And there was Maggie by the curtain, crying.

"That's Maggie. She's crying because she thinks I killed her baby."

The ice bag laid across her body stirred like a live thing as the ice
melted, then it settled and was still. She put her hand down and felt the
smooth, cold oilskin distended with water.

"There's a dead baby in the bed. Red hair. They ought to have taken it
away," she said. "Maggie had a baby once. She took it up the lane to the
place where the man is; and they put it behind the palings. Dirty blue
palings.

"...Pussycat. Pussycat, what did you there? Pussy. Prissie. Prissiecat.
Poor Prissie. She never goes to bed. She can't get up out of the chair."

A figure in white, with a stiff white cap, stood by the bed. She named it,
fixed it in her mind. Nurse. Nurse--that was what it was. She spoke to it.
"It's sad--sad to go through so much pain and then to have a dead baby."