. . .'"
But what is the use of repeating what I said then (perhaps unjustly) or
afterwards in the silence of my own room and the helpless intoxication
of my rage?
It was soon stamped out of me.
By the end of another week I was driven to such despair by the continued
extortions of the Olivers that, seeing an advertisement in the
Underground Railway of a Home for children in the country (asking for
subscriptions and showing a group of happy little people playing under a
chestnut-tree in bloom), I decided to make one more effort.
"They can't all be machines," I thought, "with the founders' hearts
crushed out of them."
The day was Friday, when work was apt to heap up at the Jew's, and Mrs.
Abramovitch had brought vests enough to my room to cover my bed, but
nevertheless I put on my hat and coat and set out for the orphanage.
It was fifteen miles on the north side of London, so it cost me
something to get there. But I was encouraged by the homelike appearance
of the place when I reached it, and still more by finding that it was
conducted by women, for at last, I thought, the woman-soul would speak
to me.
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