And the scythe of death swept
by; there was wholesale assassination; doors were left wide open before
rows of cradles, in order to make room for fresh bundles despatched from
Paris. Yet all did not die; here, for instance, was one brought home
again. But even when they came back alive they carried with them the
germs of death, and another hecatomb ensued, another sacrifice to the
monstrous god of social egotism.
"I'm tired out; I must sit down," resumed La Couteau, seating herself on
the narrow bench behind the counter. "Ah! what a trade! And to think that
we are always received as if we were heartless criminals and thieves!"
She also had become withered, her sunburnt, tanned face suggesting more
than ever the beak of a bird of prey. But her eyes remained very keen,
sharpened as it were by ferocity. She no doubt failed to get rich fast
enough, for she continued wailing, complaining of her calling, of the
increasing avarice of parents, of the demands of the authorities, of the
warfare which was being declared against nurse-agents on all sides. Yes,
it was a lost calling, said she, and really God must have abandoned her
that she should still be compelled to carry it on at forty-five years of
age.
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