"Mother," he said, pressing her head close to his robes of state and
holding a throat-straining quiver under his voice, "I--I shouldn't have
let you stay. It was too--much for you."
It took her a moment for the mist to clear.
"I--Son--did somebody strike? Hit? Strange. I--I must have been hurt.
Son, am I bleeding?" And looked down, clasping her hand to the bosom of
her decent black-silk basque.
"Son, I--It was a good verdict, not? I--couldn't have stood it--if--if
it wasn't. I--Something--It was good, not?"
"Yes, mother, yes."
"Don't--don't let that boy get away, son. I think--those tempers--I can
help--him. You see, I know--how to handle--Somehow I--"
"Yes, mother, only now you must sit quietly--"
"Promise me, son, you won't let him get away without I see him?"
"Yes, dear, only please now--a moment--quiet--"
You see, the judge was very tired, and, looking down at the spot where
her hand still lay at her bosom as if to press down a hurt, the red of
her same obsession shook and shook him.
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