And even she was forced to admit to herself that this last resource of hers was a slender reed on which to lean. Still, something had marked the face, something had left an indelible touch. God is a jealous God, and He turned upon me relentlessly. She practiced swaddling on a doll, pretending to pat the head of her imaginary infant boy. Her pat answer to all inquiries was, “I let my sister Shari make me over,” while she kept from staring at her own reflection in the shiny shoes past her bare knees. The well of tears in her eyes was dry. A thin mist lay on the river, giving the few craft moving about in it a ghostly look. The conversation which her entrance had interrupted began to buzz again all around her.
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