My mother died the day I was born; that’s what they tell me. Now, more and more, we’re going to be interested in them, to be curious about them and—quite mildly-experimental with them. She became more and more alive, not so much to a system of ideas as to a big diffused impulse toward change, to a great discontent with and criticism of life as it is lived, to a clamorous confusion of ideas for reconstruction—reconstruction of the methods of business, of economic development, of the rules of property, of the status of children, of the clothing and feeding and teaching of every one; she developed a quite exaggerated consciousness of a multitude of people going about the swarming spaces of London with their minds full, their talk and gestures full, their very clothing charged with the suggestion of the urgency of this pervasive project of alteration. At this juncture, Sir Cecil and his followers appeared at the threshold. Courtlaw opened his lips, but remained silent in the face of her imperative gesture. “My dear,” she said, when she could get her breath, “you must come home at once.
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