Samson got up. Through the gloom of the heavy room he groped to the sideboard. He found another candle. He brought it back to the table. He lighted it with the other that was low, and set it alongside.
“I have a daughter,” she said, “nearly as big as you.”
—I want to speak! What can I say to this woman? It is hard, it will be braver to keep silent: not to break this stillness in which her will so strangely works—toward what? For her sake, I am still.
“I am a failure. Look at me, Boy. Look at me. Look at Fanny Dirk. There is light enough to look.”
He looked at her. But he saw only her eyes that were very strong and clear.
“You have talked with me long,” she said. “Be quiet with me now.”
They faced each other over the mellow table. It broadened, it narrowed: they were far and close. There was a wave in the room, making the table and the two flames and their own forms curve and refract, as if their eyes caught this reality of them together through some substance quick like flowing water.
“Be still,” she whispered.
The clock gave a stroke: “Half ... past ... eleven.”
—He stays!
—He has listened to my words. He has heard my will.
Carnally he came.
That is swept away.
My will has cleaned him unto me. He stays.