“Later they would return from the Woman’s Hospital at Clapton, hugging tightly their precious woollen, cuddly bundle of humanity, their faces paler and manner subdued; some were only eighteen, mostly all in their early twenties, but they have lived and seen life.

“As week succeeded week, and the end of the six months (the ordered time to remain after baby is born) draws to a close, you would see they get perturbed. The fatal day arrives⁠—the parting is hard, ah, how hard only God knows! Tomorrow those arms will be empty. That baby will be in a strange foster home, that mother will be breaking her heart, working feverishly, possibly taking her first place (as a general servant in a Jewish household) working like grim death to kill the ache. Oh, the horror of that first night in a strange bed, with no cot to rock, a nameless child, perhaps, but a mother’s baby for all that. Today as she says ‘Goodbye, girls,’ she smiles, yes, even laughs outright, shrilly, and when someone says ‘Good luck, dear,’ the tears will trickle down her cheeks, still she smiles, waves her hand almost flippantly. ‘Thanks, awfully. See you again.’ The big, brown door swings on its hinges⁠—she is gone⁠—gone⁠—to face⁠—what?