Opening a pair of large black eyes, the child fixed them for an instant upon Wood, and then, alarmed by the light, uttered a low and melancholy cry, which, however, was speedily stilled by the caresses of his mother, towards whom he extended his tiny arms, as if imploring protection. Wood, in deploring his wild career, adverted to the melancholy condition to which it had reduced his mother. "Red apples and snow!" he repeated. She did not have to investigate that his door was locked. He began shoveling dirt over the bodies. Her name was Rhea. There he sat, cheerfully friendly in his sex’s freedom—the man she loved, the one man she cared should unlock the way to the wide world for her imprisoned feminine possibilities, and he seemed regardless that she stifled under his eyes; he made a jest of all this passionate insurgence of the souls of women against the fate of their conditions. The law would accord her all her previous rights: she would return to the exact status out of which in his madness he had taken her. They concern us all.
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