“You had a good time together?” “Yes. And you, Dear? Your sister?” “She is worse. But she won’t die. Not that sort of thing. Just pine away and eat up her husband’s money and nag her children.” “There’s nothing to do, I suppose?” “Of course not. You liked Tessie? Not Susan.” “I did not understand her?” “Do you think you understood Tessie?” Clara was eager. She did not challenge. She wished to be assured. “I think so.... All except those hands--“ “Hands!” “That is: that is what I understood the best: they’re the key, so little and so terrible. You see, I know that. Only, I haven’t used the key.” She smiled in the amazed eyes of Clara. “Fanny, you sometimes frighten me.” Clara took her hand and held it long and looked at it. Then she squeezed it and smiled also. “You don’t mean to say: this very first time she told you her _story_!” “No. Why did you think so, Clara?” “What you said about her hands.” “Who couldn’t see that? They are so small and tortured--plump perverse hands. She had no gloves. Her hands, Clara--her hands have--“ Fanny stopped. She could not go on. “Yes?” “Well,” she whispered half to herself, “ ...something ruins all of us, I suppose.” She was blanched as if she had walked leisuredly upon a strange outlandish road, forgetful it was so: and sudden there was a precipice below her feet. Mind held back her almost plunging body with the plunge’s horror. She recoiled. “I know what you were going to say,” Clara’s voice was hard, “her hands it was, that _ruined_ her....” “Clara!” “We are ruined, for you. I know it. You are right. We are bad women ... ruined....” “Clara!” Fanny jumped up. She faced her friend. She sought her eyes, sad and rebellious, and held them. “Clara, you have saved me, you are sound. It is I who am broken. When one is broken, Clara, one does not always quickly understand. One lacks words. One falls back, Clara, on words that for today are lies.” She clasped the wrists of her friend. They stood tense, against each other: so. In a taut silence. “We are all ruined,” came Clara’s voice. “But you still love.” “Then none of us are ruined.” Clara’s head tossed in anger. “No sentiment!” “There are no ruins I tell you,” Fanny met her. * * * * * Fanny lay quiet in bed. She was relaxed at last. The vibrance of these many hours had run out into a Space beyond her, where the sharp thrusts through her nerves lay lost in a pool of glow. She lay in this glow in bed: Clara beside her, responsive to her friend’s new peace but unaware of its synthesis of warring parts meeting beyond her. “Should I read?” she asked. “Tell me about your friends.” “They are friends of mine.” Clara raised her head as if her words were a challenge. Fanny lay still, with her eyes shut, waiting.