Autumn arrives. In an unnamed town with a rainstorm impending, Rinthy watches as a woman carries a sack with something struggling soundlessly inside of it.

Rinthy asks a passing man about a doctor. The man, a lawyer, invites her to wait for the doctor in his office, which abuts the doctor’s, and she accepts. In his office, the lawyer smokes a cigar and asks Rinthy about herself. He says that even if she doesn’t have enough money, the doctor will still treat her because it’s the right thing to do. Rinthy says that she’s a widow with one baby. The doctor arrives, and Rinthy thanks the lawyer before he leaves: “she rose and crossed the floor before the lawyer and gave him a little curtsying nod, ragged, shoeless, deferential and half deranged, and yet moving in an almost palpable amnion of propriety” (151).

Rinthy explains that despite her baby dying the day it was born, she’s been lactating ever since, causing her nipples to chafe and bleed. In hushed tones, the doctor accuses her of lying, arguing that no woman lactates for six months after her baby dies. Rinthy admits that in fact her brother gave it away. The doctor tells her that the fact she’s still lactating means her baby is likely still alive.