"Of course you could--you so young and good-lookin'. Only the other day
the person at number five could tell me as you were the prettiest woman
as comes up the Row, and the Vicar's wife couldn't hold a candle to you.
'Fine feathers makes fine birds,' says she: 'Give your young lady a nice
frock and a bit o' colour in her checks, and there ain't many as could
best her in the West End neither.'"
As the woman talked dark thoughts took possession of me. I began to
think of Angela. I tried not to, but I could not help it.
And then came the moment of _my_ fiercest trial. With a sense of Death
hanging over my child I told myself that the only way to drive it off
was to make _some great sacrifice_.
Hitherto I had thought of everything I possessed as belonging to baby,
but now I felt that _I myself_ belonged to her. I had brought her into
the world, and it was my duty to see that she did not suffer.
All this time the inherited instinct of my religion was fighting hard
with me, and I was saying many Hail Marys to prevent myself from doing
what I meant to do.
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