an ever. She
had lowered herself at the side of the table and rested with her arms upon it, her
chin upon her wrists.
She said that I was very brave—the same thing Helen said, a week ago. Hearing
it again, I almost laughed. Brave! I said. Brave, to bear my own complaining self!
When I would rather lose that self—but cannot, could not, was forbidden even
that—
''Brave,'' she said again, shaking her head, ''to have brought yourself here, to
Millbank, to all of us that wait for you . . .''
She was close to me, and the cell was chill. I felt the warmth of her, the life
of her. But now, keeping her eyes upon me, she rose and stretched. ''Your sister,''
she said, ''that you''re so envious of. What do you have to envy, really? What has
she done, that is so marvellous? You think she has evolved—but is it that? To
have done what everyone does? She has only moved to more of the same. How
clever is that?''
I thought of Pris—who has always, like Stephen, favoured Mother, while I
resemble Pa. I imagined her in twenty years, scolding her daughters.
But people, I said, do not want cleverness—not in women, at least. I said,
''Women are bred to do more of the same—that is their function. It is only ladies like
me that throw the system out, make it stagger—''
She said then that, it was doing the same thing always that kept us ''bound to the