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.”