little bit less, and her nose would be obliterated. The lakes of her
eyes tranquilly conceal the raging waves in their depths. How many, by a
shade of ill-luck, have escaped beauty? Trude, by a miracle, has escaped
ugliness.

Mania, her sister, so different with her agile, insinuating body,
lovingly fingers the presents. "You have not seen everything, Trude. Do
come." Books, prints, china, and elegant embroidered articles--pretty
things all from poor people who will soon be setting out on foot in the
darkness for their distant lodgings in order to save carfare. For we are
all as poor as poor can be. Except Markowitch. Mania told me he was
"immensely rich," had at least two hundred dollars a month spending
money.

It is hard to say whether it is our poverty that creates this
comradeship among us. You come in and you feel at ease, you feel _good_,
you love all of them, even Lonnie, the little Swiss with cheeks
lacquered with rouge, and even Michael with his tight compressed nose
peaking out of the profile of a hen--Michael perhaps more than the
others.

So much the worse for Markovitch: we are going to begin. The hubbub dies
down a little; everyone finds a place, two on the same chair, some on
the bed, a good many on the floor, young men, young girls holding each
other's hands, so close together, so pure, that I can still not accustom
myself....

"It is your turn, Mania."

A song, liquid, then fiery, comes from among the reeds and carries you
far off--down there--to those wild plains chiseled by the wind where the
streams, driven to the surface and threshed by their rocky beds, have
the fury of torrents. What a potency of attention on these serious
faces!

Isn't that Markovitch?

"Come in!"

With his hardened features wrought in granite he, too, is a force. His
bulbous eyes search the gathering and find what they are looking for....
Dahlia raises her head, blushes, and is veiled in delicate purple up to
the golden edge of her hair. She is aware of the love of this great
spoilt boy; we are all aware of it; but she has refused to be his wife
because she does not love him. He will not speak of it again;
nevertheless they continue to meet straightforwardly. With a free,
rounded movement of her arms, like the handles of an amphora, she points
to a vacant place beside her. "Here." Then in dismay: "Don't make a
noise."

Prikoff is telling of a childhood recollection. You seem to see him as
both the fantastic gnome