Would she
care if we were all of us buried in the ruins of this house to-
morrow? Not for a single moment. And it's her religion. I hate
religion. I hate it! . . . and since I've been in this house I've
hated it more and more. You don't know what it was like with father.
I don't think of it now or talk of it, but I know what it made of
HIM. And now it's the same here, only it takes them in a different
way. But it's the same in the end--no one who's religious cares for
any one. And they'd make the same of me. Aunt Anne would--the same
as she's made of Aunt Elizabeth. They haven't said much yet, but
they're waiting for the right moment, and then they'll spring it
upon me. It's in the house, it's in the rooms, it's in the very
furniture. It's as though father had come back and was driving me
into it. And I want to be free, I want to lead my own life, to make
it myself. I don't want to think about God or Heaven or Hell. I
don't care whether I'm good or bad. . . . What's the use of my being
here in London and never seeing anything. I'll go into a shop or
something and work my fingers to the bone. They SHAN'T catch me.
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