“You, Fanny!”
“Clara!”
The face of the dark girl: “Nearly four years I have longed to find you.”
Fanny’s eyes: “Nearly four years....”
Clara could not speak. “You, you,” she kept repeating, “ ...you....” She focussed her eyes and saw her. She was still.
Fanny felt:—She knows how I am. This girl has always loved me.
“Come, we’re going to dinner. We’re going to spend the evening. O Fanny!”
Fanny knew that if her eyes could pierce within the daze of this meeting ... under the Spring, in the snow-stained street ... she would see Clara trimly, quietly dressed—richly. Clara hale and hard and shut.
—This girl has loved me!
They did not speak, walking. Blue night, a swathing of cottoney blue mist, crept from the skies, curled the miasmic streets, bundled the rigid Town in its soft glamor. Lights made little rents. Fanny moved beside the hard thrust of this girl....—She has loved me!... through the blue warm-ness.