THE SWEET-SCENTED NAME
his father's. The little pinky shell-like ears, the rounded limbs, the rosy dimpled cheeks were her own.
She knew all his little body—all. And his little baby ways—how he would hold his tiny hands, how he would cross one foot over the other—learning from the father he had never seen. His smile was like her own—he had just that same trick of dropping his head on one side in blushing confusion.
Painfully sweet memories. The tender, rosy fingers of her child touched her deep wounds, and were cruel though dear. So painful! But she never wished to drive him away.
"I cannot, cannot do without thee, dear little unborn son of mine. If only thou wert really living! If only I could give thee life!"
For it was only a dream-life! It was for her alone. The unborn can never rejoice or weep for himself. He lives, but not for himself. In the world of the living, in the midst of people and earthly things, he doesn't exist at all. So full of life, so dear, so bright, and yet he is not.
Nadezhda Alexevna used to say to herself, "And this is my doing. Now he is small and he doesn't understand. But when he
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