Morel shrank back.
"I could kill you, I could!" she said.

She choked with rage, her two fists uplifted.
"Yer non want ter make a wench on 'im," Morel said, in a frightened tone, bending his head to shield his eyes from hers.

His attempt at laughter had vanished.
The mother looked down at the jagged, close-clipped head of her child.
She put her hands on his hair, and stroked and fondled his head.
"Oh--my boy!" she faltered.

Her lip trembled, her face broke, and, snatching up the child, she buried her face in his shoulder and cried painfully.

She was one of those women who cannot cry; whom it hurts as it hurts a man.