There she lies, white and supple, with dewy, wistful eyes,
sighing: 'What is my meaning? Ah, I am everything! Is there in all
the world a thing so wonderful as I?... Oh, I am nothing--my wings are
heavy; I faint, I die!'
When Thyme, attended by the grey girl, emerged from the abyss at the
top, her cheeks were flushed and her hands clenched. She said nothing.
The grey girl, too, was silent, with a look such as a spirit divested of
its body by long bathing in the river of reality might bend on one who
has just come to dip her head. Thyme's quick eyes saw that look, and
her colour deepened. She saw, too, the glance of the Jewish youth when
Martin joined them in the doorway.
'Two girls now,' he seemed to say. 'He goes it, this young man!'
Supper was laid in her new friend's room--pressed beef, potato salad,
stewed prunes, and ginger ale. Martin and the grey girl talked. Thyme
ate in silence, but though her eyes seemed fastened on her plate, she
saw every glance that passed between them, heard every word they said.
Those glances were not remarkable, nor were those words particularly
important, but they were spoken in tones that seemed important to Thyme.
'He never talks to me like that,' she thought.
When supper was over they went out into the streets to walk, but at the
door the grey girl gave Thyme's arm a squeeze, her cheek a swift kiss,
and turned back up the stairs.
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