all's well.' Here was Hazel, radiant, soft, submissive, all the rough
prickly husk gone since Sunday. Why had he behaved so strangely in the
Spinney?

Well, well, he must forget about that.

The hot tea ran very comfortably down his throat; the toast was
pleasantly resistant to his strong teeth. He felt satisfied with life.
Later on, no doubt, Hazel would have a child. That, too, would be a
good thing. Two possessions are better than one, and he could well
afford children. It never occurred to him to wonder whether Hazel would
like it, or to be sorry for the pain in store for her. He felt very
unselfish as he thought, 'When she can't go about, I'll sit with her
now and again.' It really was a good deal for him to say. He had never
taken the slightest notice of Sally Haggard at such times.

'Got something for you,' he said, pulling at his pocket.

'Oh! It's an urchin!' cried Hazel delightedly.

Reddin began bruising and pulling at its spines with his gloved hands.

'Dunna!' cried Hazel.

Reddin pulled and wrenched until at last the hedgehog screamed--a thin,
piercing wail, most ghastly and pitiful and old, ancient as the cry of
the death's-head moth, that faint ghostly shriek as of a tortured
witch. Centuries of pain were in it, the age-long terror of weakness
bound and helpless beneath the knife, and that something vindictive and
terrifying that looks up at the hunter from the eyes of trapped animals