Oh, how well I remember that little point of time!
My first disappointment was to learn that the good doctor was dead, and
when I was shown into the office of his successor (everything bore such
a businesslike air) I found an elderly man with a long "three-decker"
neck and a glacial smile, who, pushing his spectacles up on to his
forehead, said in a freezing voice:
"Well, ma'am, what is _your_ pleasure?"
After a moment of giddiness I began to tell him my story--how I had a
child and her nurse was not taking proper care of her; how I was in
uncongenial employment myself, but hoped soon to get better; how I loved
my little one and expected to be able to provide for her presently; and
how, therefore, if he would receive her for a while, only a little
while, on the understanding, the clear and definite understanding, that
I could take her away as soon as I wished to. . . .
Oh dear! Oh dear:
I do not know what there was in my appearance or speech which betrayed
me, but I had got no further than this when the old gentleman said
sharply:
"Can you provide a copy of the register of your child's birth to show
that it is legitimate?"
What answer I made I cannot recollect, except that I told the truth in a
voice with a tremor in it, for a memory of the registry office was
rolling back on me and I could feel my blushes flushing into my face.
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