They were below her, seated on the floor ... Clara and Tessie and Susan. Their will surged over her head.
She was flooded with their will. Slowly her hands stroked hair and cheek. Their will stormed her head ... surged torrentful about her.
Her eyes lay quietly upon the faces of her friends. And her hands slow. And their will a tempest.
Slowly, Fanny nodded.
Her left hand closed tight on the hand of Clara. Her right hand upon Tessie’s upbrushed hair contracted until the scalp of Tessie hurt. She nodded slowly....
* * *
The street is quiet. The House stands braced in a wall of higher houses dusty and grimed about their stifled worlds. It is of four stories. Its mellow red brick glows with at least half a hundred years. White net curtains angle the square windows. The stoop has an iron rail that peels as Judge Mark mounts, his heaving mass buttressed by a soft white hand upon it.
He upholds his right palm with its rust stains to Fanny.
“I wish you’d have that rail off. Every time I come here I’ve got to wash before I can even sit down.”
Susan laughs. Tessie is humming, and her eyes slide away with her balancing tune. Clara does not care.