She had a will of her own, was selfish in her French way. And yet⁠—so pretty! What would she wish⁠—to take the risk. “I know she wants the child,” he thought. “If it’s born dead, and no more chance afterwards⁠—it’ll upset her terribly. No more chance! All for nothing! Married life with her for years and years without a child. Nothing to steady her! She’s too young. Nothing to look forward to, for her⁠—for me!

For me! ” He struck his hands against his chest! Why couldn’t he think without bringing himself in⁠—get out of himself and see what he ought to do? The thought hurt him, then lost edge, as if it had come in contact with a breastplate. Out of oneself! Impossible! Out into soundless, scentless, touchless, sightless space! The very idea was ghastly, futile! And touching there the bedrock of reality, the bottom of his Forsyte spirit, Soames rested for a moment. When one ceased, all ceased; it might go on, but there’d be nothing in it!