It had a tiny flaw, most bizarre. ’ Disappointment flooded her. I'll talk to her in the morning, but she won't understand what I'm driving at. She was aware of it now as if it were a voice shouting outside a house, shouting passionate verities in a hot sunlight, a voice that cries while people talk insincerely in a darkened room and pretend not to hear. Across that world was written in letters of light, “Endowment of Motherhood. He was accompanied by a young man of about seven-and-twenty, who carried his easel, set it in its place, laid the canvass upon it, opened the paint box, took out the brushes and palette, and, in short, paid him the most assiduous attention. Hitherto she had seen it chiefly in pictures and other works of art, incidentally, and as a thing taken out of life.
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