midnight
I sat down and stared at that neatly folded pile of baby-clothes two feet high , a layer-cake of whites and faded blues and pinks . I stared at it , and began to gulp tragically , wallowing in a wave of self-pity . I felt so sorry for myself that I let my flat-iron burn a hole clean through the ironing-sheet , without even smelling it . That , I told myself , was all that life could be to me , just a round of washing and ironing and meal-getting and mending , fetch and carry , work and worry , from sun-up until sun-down , and many a time until midnight . And what , I demanded of the frying-pan on its nail above the stove-shelf , was I getting out of it ? What was it leading to ? And what would it eventually bring me ?