“In here?” Clara’s smile softened the shadows in her face. “Yes. Right here. Do!” ... She felt she must face this room, this heavy stifled room, this weighty fact of where she was and with what. She must eat this room with her breakfast.... It was hard to swallow. Her throat was dry and was full. Above her the chandelier came down in a tawdry twist of gilt from the dim ceiling. The gilt flaked, and she saw black iron. “Does it taste good?” asked Clara. She looked at Clara.--God, how dare I pity her! You are good. What you have, you have given me.... “Yes, Dear, it tastes good. You made it. It tastes of your hands.” They ate ... the breakfast, the room. “Give me your hand!” Fanny clasped it across the table. A bit of toast it held fell in the sudden sally and the butter smeared the palm. Fanny opened the palm, she held it full against her mouth. She kissed the grease and the flesh. “I am eating you,” she spoke. Clara’s eyes were frightened. So she laughed. “You dear!... Could you eat some more toast?” --How do I know what I eat? God, you insult us. If we must feed on dirt Why give us love of the Clean? Why give us fear of the dirt If we must feed on dirt? Since we must eat and eat Why give us knowledge?... What do I eat? If I must feed on You God, why do I forget? * * * * * The whole day alone, she promised to herself. Lucy in the other rooms would intervene a little: nothing was perfect. Yet Fanny felt that this was good. She was at ease in her armchair. Soon the sun would sweep into her place. And Lucy had the musical quiet of her folk, she really did not interfere more than a cat might ... a useful cat who would bring her her lunch on the portable table and her drops every three hours. Lucy had a soothing grain, almost like sunlight ... a sort of saffron practicable sunlight. “Ev’thing a’right now, Mis’ Fanny?” “Yes, Lucy. Thank you.” The girl swayed on her little haunches, holding her hands across her breast. “It’s gone to be a fine day. That’ll mak’ you fine, Mis’ Fanny, right soon again.” “I wish I was as fine as you.” “Aw Mis’ Fanny!” Her hands beat out in protest ... glad gaunt hands stripped by their work of flesh, and yet the music of them lived in their bone and their gesture. Lucy went off, her soft shoes patting like the cushioned feet of a tamed panther. The door closed to the kitchen; Fanny was alone. Lucy would seek her den and fill it with steam and suds, wrap a red rag around her head and fall to work with an occasional cry like a wild beast musing: lost in a sort of virginal ecstacy which Fanny loved, of work and dreaming. --She’s diligent! If she were German, wouldn’t I say: No one but a German could be so thorough? And she’s a negress. White blood yes ... but it dilutes, that’s all, the mellow flow of her life. O you superior Lucy! Yet she’s colored.