Волны

           RhodaandJinnysitfaroffinbrownserge,andlookatMissLambertwhositsunderapictureofQueenAlexandrareadingfromabookbeforeher.Thereisalsoabluescrollofneedleworkembroideredbysomeoldgirl.IfIdonotpursemylips,ifIdonotscrewmyhandkerchief,Ishallcry.’

           ’Thepurplelight,’saidRhoda,’inMissLambert’sringpassestoandfroacrosstheblackstainonthewhitepageofthePrayerBook.Itisavinous,itisanamorouslight.Nowthatourboxesareunpackedinthedormitories,wesitherdedtogetherundermapsoftheentireworld.Therearedeskswithwellsfortheink.Weshallwriteourexercisesininkhere.ButhereIamnobody.Ihavenoface.Thisgreatcompany,alldressedinbrownserge,hasrobbedmeofmyidentity.Weareallcallous,unfriended.Iwillseekoutaface,acomposed,amonumentalface,andwillendowitwithomniscience,andwearitundermydresslikeatalismanandthen(Ipromisethis)IwillfindsomedingleinawoodwhereIcandisplaymyassortmentofcurioustreasures.Ipromisemyselfthis.SoIwillnotcry.’

           ’Thatdarkwoman,’saidJinny,’withhighcheek-bones,hasashinydress,likeashell,veined,forwearingintheevening.Thatisniceforsummer,butforwinterIshouldlikeathindressshotwithredthreadsthatwouldgleaminthefirelight.Thenwhenthelampswerelit,Ishouldputonmyreddressanditwouldbethinasaveil,andwouldwindaboutmybody,andbillowoutasIcameintotheroom,pirouetting.ItwouldmakeaflowershapeasIsankdown,inthemiddleoftheroom,onagiltchair.