9/25 It was a low moan of intense pain--a smothered cry that seemed to be wrung from some animal in torture. I turned in the direction whence it came, and saw, lying face downward on the grass, a boy--a little fruit-seller of eleven or twelve years of age. His basket of wares stood beside him, a tempting pile of peaches, grapes, pomegranates, and melons--lovely but dangerous eating in cholera times. I touched the lad on the shoulder. He twisted himself convulsively and turned his face toward me--a beautiful face, though livid with anguish. |