"Whose grave is this?" he inquired of a man who was standing near it. Here was no crooked soul; a little weak perhaps, impulsive beyond common, but fundamentally honest. Why shouldn’t we be martyrs? There’s nothing else for most of us, anyhow. "It's an ill wind that blows nobody good," thought the carpenter, turning his attention to the child, whose feeble struggles and cries proclaimed that, as yet, life had not been extinguished by the hardships it had undergone. He drew a little breath and stepped back. Behind her stood Caliban, chuckling to himself, and grinning from ear to ear. . But … he must want to live in order that the inclination to repeat this incident may not recur. She put her hand in his to be squeezed. His eyes squeezed shut in ecstasy; he let out a sigh.
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