Behind the poet came Sir James Thornhill. She was ashamed of herself for the simple gladness she felt wash over her as the infant’s screams ended. All that he had sown that afternoon with such infinite care was as nothing compared to this seed, cast without forethought. “I didn’t know you were so keen on this suffrage business. You are afraid of the warmth in your blood. Opposite to her was a sallow-visaged young man, whose small tie seemed like a smudge of obtusively shiny black across the front of a high close-drawn collar. A series of photographs were taken of them: her on the stairs, the couple of them on the stairs, the couple of them in the kitchen, him pinning a red rose corsage with great care and acute sexual frustration. But ere the words could find utterance, her maternal tenderness overcame her indignation; and, sinking upon her knees, she extended her arms over her child.
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