She raises the window-shade. Her face stands out—is it the same?—marred by the light.
The borders of her green eyes show the streaky after-effects of tears, her cheeks are lined, her lips have lost their blood and youthful red, the two tendons of her lovely marble neck twitch, and the cherished body in its holiday attire collapses like a broken toy.
I approach her, holding out in my comradely arms the new spirit that will blossom on the new earth. I am not the only one; other young women would speak as I do. The love by which we live is not like the love the others die of.
But when I come close to her she steps into the full light ... I give up the idea of explaining myself. There is nothing to say. She is twenty years older than we are.
XII
I have the feeling that I am not prepared; it is a sort of embarrassment, an obscure terror, and when I get myself to say so to the other women, they laugh and hush me up. "Don't worry. The knowledge comes of itself. Just being a mother teaches you how to raise a child."
It was by chance that I came to this street. I was walking along. The hospital. A dull flat smell surrounded the sordid building with a leprous haze. The doorway was swallowing up a long line of women from off the gray canyon of the street. I do not know what struck me—I retraced my steps and followed the women in.
We were made to wait in a room heavy with a brew of musty drug smells. Someone shut the door, and immediately there broke out a fearful hubbub, a concert of human meowings, bawls, pipings. A panic nearly seized me. With the dull patience of animals penned in together the women formed into groups and filled out blank forms, rocking and bobbing the light fragile bundles they each carried in their arms.