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“Have you ever stopped to think, Clare,” Irene demanded, “how much unhappiness and downright cruelty are laid to the loving-kindness of the Lord? And always by His most ardent followers, it seems.”
She said: “It’s funny about ‘passing.’ We disapprove of it and at the same time condone it. It excites our contempt and yet we rather admire it. We shy away from it with an odd kind of revulsion, but we protect it.”
“I think,” she said at last, “that being a mother is the cruellest thing in the world.”
It was, she cried silently, enough to suffer as a woman, an individual, on one’s own account, without having to suffer for the race as well.
