have that,” I said.
“No,” she said, “we can't have that.”
“We've got our own things to do.”
“YOUR things,” she said.
“Aren't they yours too?”
“Because of you,” she said.
“Aren't they your very own things?”
“Women don't have that sort of very own thing. Indeed, it's true! And think! You've been down there preaching the goodness of children, telling them the only good thing in a state is happy, hopeful children, working to free mothers and children—”
“And we give our own children to do it?” I said.
“Yes,” she said. “And sometimes I think it's too much to give—too much altogether.... Children get into a woman's brain—when she mustn't have them, especially when she must never hope for them. Think of the child we might have now!—the little creature with soft, tender skin,