“Now it’s my sitting room,” laughed Fanny.
“You’ve been used to more than that.”
“Please don’t!” Then Fanny was sorry. “No I don’t mean that. I don’t mean to hide myself from you, Clara. Only, it hurts.”
“You don’t have to talk ... with me. I’m not that sort. I’m not the sort of girl who measures a friendship by the number of secrets chattered about.”
“I know.”
“I feel we’re friends, you and I. That’s enough.”
“That’s enough. But O, Clara, if I knew a single thing in all the world, I’d tell you. I don’t know anything. Perhaps you know more than I.”
“I know some things,” said Clara.
“I feel you know some things,” Fanny looked at her friend’s long taut hands. They reached for her bag, opened it, took out a box of cigarettes. She offered it, open, to Fanny. “Go ahead.” They both smoked.
“I know that a smoke tastes good,” said Clara. “I know that in the mornings a cup of coffee tastes good. I know I’m young and that the world won’t give me a thing ... not a thing!... unless I fight, unless I cheat.”