Fanny thought of the ugly prejudices which still lay rooted in her mind. She could praise Lucy if she patronized her too. Take away the condescension and at once she looked into a pool, misted by childhood fears and girlish passion, of black distrust. --No use thinking of all that. I believe I had a mind: it might have amounted to something, too. A woman’s mind at work ... as a woman’s mind ... not as a lawyer’s or a doctor’s ... like some men’s minds: what’d the world have said to that? Well, it’s too late. My mind is a wreck also. It keeps on going, like an engine, broken and off its track, ploughing the earth and itself. Going ... and going. Who knows though? Perhaps it is not off its track. Perhaps my way is not a two-rail track over a flat plain land. There are other dimensions. --O I must have faith! That is the terrible thing ... how in my weakness my faith went also. Faith and strength seem to go together. That’s a good sign, is it not? Proves faith is not born of weakness. My faith takes _power_. It’s hard work. Come back! --There is nothing else. It is inevitable. Like a tree that grows. And has its seasons. What does it know about them? ‘Now I burst into blossoms ... now I am in leaves ... now I am stark and cold.’ I am ashamed. Weak failure! Rescued by Clara, living on Clara, in a flat some man gave Clara. Shame!... Well, it is Winter. Didn’t Leon know that it all meant something?... Did he foresee a thing like this? What would he say?... Harry was wrong. O I am sure of that. I am the answer to Harry. What did he know of Scripture ... of Jesus? We have taken Christ and his name. What have we done with him? What more than the Jews who refused him? Are they Christ, themselves?... Why do I think so tenderly of Jews? --Leon? One man.... If Edith were his, not Harry’s, would she love me? You are nine years old, my beloved. I can see you. I can see you so clear because I see you naked. What clothes have you on today, going to school?... Mrs. Parker’s School. That wouldn’t change. Motherless child, you have a mother. Can’t you feel ... O you must _feel_ your mother!... --Suppose she could see her mother! No ... not with your young eyes. How could they understand? Fanny shrank in her chair....--Thank God, I am hidden away.... But my name? Let it stand. Some day perhaps, since she is my own, she may have eyes that can see me.... --No. Never! That is all past. She knew that this was past. She knew there was in her still living, that which could not bear that it was: a part of her that held the memory and hope of her child close to her breast, sucking yet giving her warmth. --My little girl! As you grow, you become smaller beside me. For I grow so much faster. My little girl! Will you catch up with your mother? The mother saw her naked. She was willowy supple, tender like a flower. Her flesh was cream and crisp, it was like the meat of a fresh peach.