“It might be a tract; it might be a revolver. This morning it was a little pink card. She pushed it across the table to Suzanne. “That’s the number of the clinic,” she said. “Ring them up right away for a quote. If you don’t want to go locally, I’ll drive you back up to Manchester; Hermione’s given me the name of her man on John Street.” “It’s Saturday,” Suzanne said. “There’ll be somebody there, don’t fret.” “Anybody would think you were forewarned.” “Sometimes my community work comes in useful....” “Hang on a minute, Sylvia. This is your own flesh and blood.” “I prefer not to think about the flesh and blood aspect. It hardly is, at this stage.” “But it’s a potential life. She has to think it out. It’s a matter of conscience.” “Oh, bugger her conscience,” Sylvia said. “What about her career?” Suzanne surveyed her mother from red-rimmed eyes. She did not look pregnant. She was a thin, listless girl, though pretty enough in a commonplace sort of way.MoreLessRead More Read Less
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