"That is so."
"Who are to ask her all those questions?"
"Yes."
"And then they are to change her baby's name?"
"Yes."
"Is she told what the new name is to be?"
"No, but she is given a piece of parchment containing a number which
corresponds with the name in our books."
I rose to my feet, flushing up to the eyes I think, trembling from head
to foot I know, and, forgetting who and what I was and why I was
there--a poor, helpless, penniless being seeking shelter for her
child--I burst out on the man in all the mad wrath of outraged
motherhood.
"And you call this a Christian institution!" I said. "You take a poor
woman in her hour of trouble and torture her with an inquisition into
the most secret facts of her life, in public, and before a committee of
men. And then you take her child, and so far as she is concerned you
bury it, and give her a ticket to its grave. A hospital? This is no
hospital. It is a cemetery. And yet you dare to write over your gates
the words of our Lord--our holy and loving and blessed Lord--who said,
'Suffer little children.
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