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Everyone, with their worries and their joys and their loves and their frustrations, their tears and dreams and laughter – they are all gloriously alike.
‘Mrs Salter says that the worshipping of commodities will be the downfall of society,’
She will never escape. She will never be free. She is destined to eke out this pitiful life, to suffer the slaps and insults of Mrs Salter, to endure her sister’s jealousy, until, at last, some scrawny boy fattens her with child after child, and she spends her days winching laundry through a mangle, swilling rotten offal into Sunday pies, all while tending to infants mewling with scarlatina and influenza and goodness knows what else, until she contracts it too . . .
She has never had the luxury of choice before, never felt she has had a right to steer her own life. It makes her feel bilious.
When Mother died – it sounds foolish, I know it does – but I remember being surprised that the sun rose that morning. It seemed as though everything should halt, that the sun should stop shining when she couldn’t be there to see it.
