war。 She was very confused。
Skrebensky was busy； he could not e to see her。 She asked
for no assurance； no security。 What was between them； was； and
could not be altered by avowals。 She knew that by instinct； she
trusted to the intrinsic reality。
But she felt an agony of helplessness。 She could do nothing。
Vaguely she knew the huge powers of the world rolling and
crashing together； darkly； clumsily； stupidly； yet colossal； so
that one was brushed along almost as dust。 Helpless； helpless；
swirling like dust！ Yet she wanted so hard to rebel； to rage； to
fight。 But with what？
Could she with her hands fight the face of the earth； beat
the hills in their places？ Yet her breast wanted to fight； to
fight the whole world。 And these two small hands were all she
had to do it with。
The months went by； and it was Christmas……the snowdrops
came。 There was a little hollow in the wood near Cossethay；
where snowdrops grew wild。 She sent him some in a box； and he
wrote her a quick little note of thanks……very grateful and
wistful he seemed。 Her eyes grew childlike and puzzled。 Puzzled
from day to day she went on； helpless； carried along by all that
must happen。
He went about at his duties； giving himself up to them。 At
the bottom of his heart his self； the soul that aspired and had
true hope of self…effectuation lay as dead；