'I suppose life is like that for a good many people,' Jean Dunbarton turned round to say.
'Oh, yes,' said her aunt.
'I come from a plyce where many fam'lies, if they're to go on livin' at all, 'ave to live like that. If you don't believe me, come and let me show you!' She spread out her lean arms. 'Come with me to Canning Town—come with me to Bromley—come to Poplar and to Bow. No, you won't even think about the over-worked women and the underfed children, and the 'ovels they live in. And you want that we shouldn't think neither——'
'We'll do the thinkin'. You go 'ome and nuss the byby.'
'I do nurse my byby; I've nursed seven. What have you done for yours?' She waited in vain for the answer. 'P'raps,' her voice quivered, 'p'raps your children never goes 'ungry, and maybe you're satisfied—though I must say I wouldn't a thought it from the look o' yer.'
'Oh, I s'y!'
'But we women are not satisfied. We don't only want better things for our own children; we want better things for all. Every child is our child. We know in our 'earts we oughtn't to rest till we've mothered 'em every one.'
'Wot about the men? Are they all 'appy?'
There was derisive laughter at that, and 'No! No!' 'Not precisely!' ''Appy? Lord!'
'No, there's lots o' you men I'm sorry for,' she said.