‘You have been pale for a long time,’ Segnat had said, ‘your warm moistures fled. You are weak, and your sanguine temperament, if you did have any on you, may not return until the child leaves the house. Not all are made for motherhood.’

Though she hated Segnat for saying it, Dervorgilla had woken up full of a hate that had never left, but she still felt that it was Segnat’s saying of it that had made it true, and she hated her for it, too.

A constant headache buzzes behind her eyes and shortens her temper; everyone looks ugly and cruel to her. Whenever people go by the house, she hears them snigger or guffaw, and, though she knows it is insane, she feels they are all laughing at her. She feels excluded from grace and calm. Nothing gives her pleasure any more, and she wonders why she cannot love such a beautiful, pudgy child, soft like butter and good-smelling. She does not love food or music any more, and she had always loved those things.

What makes it worse is that three of the other girls in Nobber had also had their firstborns that summer, and they are all so full of quiet joy and motherly arrogance that Dervorgilla thinks she would choke on her own hatred if she sees them again, but she sees no one now.