Bit by bit, she saw the evening descending upon the most beautiful day in her life.
This ruined mass, this languid face shone with the glory of having created, with a sort of ecstasy which redeemed her suffering, and one saw the new world of thoughts that grew out of her experience.
She thought of the child growing up.

She smiled at the joys and sorrows it would cause her.

She smiled also at the brother or sister it would have some day.
And I thought of this at the same time that she did, and I saw her martyrdom more clearly than she.
This massacre, this tragedy of flesh is so ordinary and commonplace that every woman carries the memory and imprint of it, and yet nobody really knows it.

The doctor, who comes into contact with so much of the same sort of suffering, is not moved by it any more.

The woman, who is too tender-hearted, never remembers it.