“And a Jew,” she murmured “a Jew was to bring me Light.”
She faced the Emptiness about her. She met it. Emptiness? The little candle stilly laid it whole, perfect, before her. Behind her a shut door. About her Emptiness.
“—and God?”
Sudden her eyes were hard. “Think of him,” she spoke. Her mouth full of tears made her voice liquid. “Think of him. Think of him, Fanny. No one else!... Your Light-bearer, your Prophet, your Voice in the Wilderness—there he is, out there, in the arms of Thelma.... Fanny, dare to think.”
She was still. She was a little woman huddled in the Dark with hard eyes, daring to think.
Daring to see!
Her mouth tremored. Her hands reached open before her. They clasped. She drew her hands in upon her breasts: and as they pressed, her eyes blazed with anguish as if she held flame to her flesh. She pressed ... she pressed. Her face broke.... Then, from the wreckage of her features there was born a smile making them clear and sharp, making them fair and high. A Light shone in them.
1916-1921
Typographical errors corrected by the etext transcriber: