She caught up the big, white fellow with sudden, irresistible yearning and sat up with him and rocked him back and forth in her arms. She began a muffled, sad little tune like a wail. The words were terrible words. "I'll hold you in my arms. I'll rock you rock you rock you. For tomorrow, oh, to-MOR-row you must die! Aber-a-ham offered Isaac, and I-MUST OFFER YOU."
The stranger says the woman is dying. The policeman stoops down, lays his hand upon her temples, then mechanically feels her arms and hands. "And I-must die-die-die in the street," whispers the woman, her head falling carelessly from the policeman's hand, in which it had rested. "Got her a bit below, at the Work'ouse door, among them wot sleeps there, eh?" The stranger says he did.
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