ARTHUR
97

During this speech, anger had lit up in this woman's chest. It was now exploding at me in a torrent of derogatory nicknames. I was a criminal, a calumniator, a thief. I have been lurking around the house, until those who*** and its power allowed them to overcome me have left. I have entered these doors with deception. I was a wretched man, guilty of the last excessive humiliation and humiliation.

Rejecting this reproach, or bearing it, is equally useless. The satisfaction I was looking for was only obtained by searching the house. I left the room without speaking. Am I acting illegally when moving from one floor and one room to another? Do I really deserve to be accused of frivolity and indecency? My behavior, I know is right, ambiguous and dangerous, and may desire wisdom, but my motives are unquestionably pure. I aim for nothing but to save human beings from distress and disrespect.

I pretend not to be at the wisdom of experience and age; to compliment thought or subtlety. I chose a clear path, and chased after it with a quick expedition. Good intentions, without the aid of knowledge, may result in more harm than benefit, and therefore knowledge must be acquired, but its gain is not momentary; it is not given without being asked and not worked out . In the meantime, we should not be inactive because we are stupid. Good goals we must quickly achieve performance, whether our knowledge is greater or smaller.

Exploring the house in this way is very contrary to the usual rules, so the design may be completely unexpected by the woman I just left behind. My silence, when separated, may have been perceived by them as an intimidating influence of mockery and threat. So I continued my search without interruption.

I currently reached the front room on the third floor. Door's open. I put it in with my tiptoes. Sitting in a low chair by the fireplace, I saw a woman, dressed in a negligent but indecent manner. His face, in the posture in which he sat, was only half visible. The color was pale and sickly, and simultaneously sad with a weak and thin shape. His eyes were fixed on a baby lying on a pillow at his feet. The child, like his mother, as he imagined, was extremely thin and like a corpse. Either it's dead, or it can't be far from dead.

The features of Clemenza are easily recognizable, although there is no greater contrast, in habits, shapes, and patterns, than what he currently has with his previous appearance. All his roses had faded away, and his brilliance vanished. However, however, some are somewhat suitable for evoking the most gentle emotions. There are signs of distress that cannot be comforted.

His attention was completely absorbed by the child. He did not raise his eyes until I approached him and stood in front of him. When he found me, a faint start was felt. He looked at me for a moment, then, putting one hand before his eyes, he extended the other hand towards the door, and waved it silently, as if warning me to leave.

This movement, however firm, I cannot obey it. I wanted to get his attention, but didn't know what words to claim. I'm silent. In an instant he removed his hand from his eyes, and looked at me with renewed vigor. Her features showed emotions that, perhaps, flowed from my resemblance to her brother, joining the memory of my relationship with Welbeck.

My situation is full of shame. I am not at all sure that my language will be understood. I had no idea in what terms Welbeck's policies and concealment might have taught him to respect me. What proposal, conducive to his comfort and safety, can I propose to him?

Once again he closed his eyes, and exclaimed, in a weak voice, "Go! go!"

As if satisfied with this effort, he again watched his son. He bent down and lifted her in his arms, meanwhile, staring at her almost lifeless features with intense anxiety. He squeezed it into his chest, and, once again looking at me, repeated, "Go! just go! go!"

"What is that," I said, "who brought me here? Welbeck's betrayal must have long been discovered. What can I tell him about Villar that he doesn't know yet, or whose knowledge will be useful "If their treatment is fair, why should I reduce their merit? If otherwise, their own behavior would reveal their original character. Although it excites themselves, it does not mean that they have worked hard to demean this creature. Though they are naughty, they may be inhuman.

“I can not propose a change in his condition for the better. Should he be willing to leave this house, where am I in charge to guide him? Oh, if I were rich enough to provide food for the hungry, shelter for the homeless, and clothing for the naked!"

I was awakened from this vain reflection by the woman, who was suddenly persuaded by some thought to put the child in her bed, and, rising up, to come towards me. The disappointment shown by his face lately had now turned into anxious curiosity. "Where," he said, in his broken English, "where is Signor Welbeck?"

"Darling!" reply me, "I don't know. That question, in my opinion, might be more worth asking you than me."

"I know where he is; I'm afraid of where he is."

that ,******* was the deepest exploding out of his heart. He turned away from me, and, going to the boy, carried him again into his lap. Her pale, sunken cheeks were quickly wet by the mother's tears, which, as she silently hung over her, fell rapidly from her eyes.

This attitude could not help but arouse curiosity, while it gave a new turn to my mind. I began to suspect that in the signs I saw there was not only distress for his son, but also concern for the fate of Welbeck. "Do you," I said, "where is Mr Welbeck? Is he alive? Is he close ? Is he in a disaster?"

"I don't know if he's alive. She's ill. He's in jail. They won't let me go to him. And"—here his attention and my attention was attracted by the baby, whose body, until now did not move, began to tremble. Its features sank into an even more horrifying expression . His breathing is difficult, and any attempt to breathe results in a harder seizure than the last.

The mother easily interpreted these signs. The same mortal struggle seemed to occur on his face as on his son. Finally his suffering found its way in a piercing scream. The baby struggle is over. Hope is in vain looking for new movements in his heart or eyelids. Her lips were closed, and her breath was gone forever!

The sadness that afflicts unhappy parents is an outrageous and hopeless kind that is completely incompatible with thought. Some incoherent movements and screams, which tore at the soul, were followed by a deep fainting. She drowned on the floor, pale and lifeless like her baby.