"It is not true." I kept whispering to myself. My cheeks burned, and I was shaking all over. Against myself, I believed him. It was horrible enough to be true.
He gave us fatherhood as it appeared to him. When he came to the mother's sacrifice of pain, and desecrated it with filthy leering words, I could bear it no longer, and eluding all attempts to stop me, I fled wildly into the house, and upstairs to my Grandmother.
She looked up from the Word, surprised in her calm fashion.
"What is it, my dear?"
I told her. "O Grandmother, it is not as cruel as that, is it? It is not true? Tell me it is not true!"
"It is true, my dear."
"And does it hurt like that?"
"Yes, my dear."
"Why—why isn't there some easier way? So horrible the first part, and then so cruel. It is wrong."
"It's the Lord's will, my dear. It always has been and always will be. Meanwhile, you are not to go on the Lawn again till I have spoken to your Aunt. I must seek the Lord's guidance. Leave me to lay it before Him."