““She watched him, thinking and dreaming, feeling life short, shiveringly short. And the bubble of wind within him forcing its way upwards as from a vase that has been too hastily filled, he would stir and snuffle, give a wandering pipe, open his eyes, while his face slowly flushed in anger and he prepared for his cry. Then the squire, growing stronger, with the definite hands of a well-accustomed mother, would lift him over her shoulder and pop his wind for him, the little bubble that had disturbed him coming up like a naughty spirit, and his head hanging helplessly goggling and staring with surprise over her shoulder, till such time as she laid him down for his final sleep and he was carried away.””
