Fanny had asked no such question before. Clara sensed beneath it the significant stir of her friend’s mind once more into the outer world. The outer world! What was going to be when Fanny once took note of her own world? She could not talk, for she was afraid. She drew a chair beside her in the sun, and held her hand and was still.
“You are looking better. I have a broiler for you. Now you must begin to eat.”
Her stress stroked a wish: Fanny should eat long, must lose herself for a long time in eating.
“I have been thinking,” Fanny said. “The sun’s so good, I’d like to walk in it.”
“Dearie, it’s cold and raw out.”
“I know it is.”
“It’s only good in a warm room ... like this.”
“I know.”
Fanny’s hand clasped over Clara’s, silencing her. They sat in silence. With gazes long and almost parallel they thought of the sun that was good only in a warm room.
“My room,” thought Clara.