She had come to despise those who were fertile out of pure jealousy, but could not admit it to herself. There she sought and at last found 107A, one of those heterogeneous piles of offices which occupy the eastern side of the lane. ‘And you, my girl, if you’d been born at all, would have been just what you think you are. The recollection of all her unhappiness, the loveless years, the unending loneliness, the injustice of it, rolled up to her lips in verbal lava. She meditated long and carefully upon her letter to her father before she wrote it, and gravely and deliberately again before she despatched it.
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