All my life,’ she said, ‘I waited for something that would give me purpose. Something I could do that would mean something. I thought I might find it in my husband, but I didn’t – although we loved each other, loving him wasn’t enough to fill a life. I thought I might find it in my house, but I had a small house and an excellent housekeeper, and an active mind which was not to be filled with housework. I was sure that I would find it in my child, but I found that, though I love my little boy, I do not have the sort of mind that can be satisfied by bending itself to the whims of an infant.’