The Food of the Gods and How It Came to Earth by H. G. (Herbert George) Wells
page 125 of 303 (41%)
page 125 of 303 (41%)
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"Bottle fed," the bus-driver would explain. "They say it 'olds a gallon and 'ad to be specially made for 'im." "Very 'ealthy child any'ow," the forward passenger would conclude. When Mrs. Redwood realized that his growth was indeed going on indefinitely and logically--and this she really did for the first time when the motor-perambulator arrived--she gave way to a passion of grief. She declared she never wished to enter her nursery again, wished she was dead, wished the child was dead, wished everybody was dead, wished she had never married Redwood, wished no one ever married anybody, Ajaxed a little, and retired to her own room, where she lived almost exclusively on chicken broth for three days. When Redwood came to remonstrate with her, she banged pillows about and wept and tangled her hair. "_He's_ all right," said Redwood. "He's all the better for being big. You wouldn't like him smaller than other people's children." "I want him to be _like_ other children, neither smaller nor bigger. I wanted him to be a nice little boy, just as Georgina Phyllis is a nice little girl, and I wanted to bring him up nicely in a nice way, and here he is"--and the unfortunate woman's voice broke--"wearing number four grown-up shoes and being wheeled about by--booboo!--Petroleum! "I can never love him," she wailed, "never! He's too much for me! I can never be a mother to him, such as I meant to be!" But at last, they contrived to get her into the nursery, and there was Edward Monson Redwood ("Pantagruel" was only a later nickname) swinging |
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