those hands, which could have been so easily brushed away, as bolts on the door of the room holding the things they had left for her to guard.
And they were proud, and their trusting eyes seemed to say they knew she would not make all their world sorry for them.
She walked slowly across Pont du Carrousel, watching the people, the people going their many ways, meeting their many problems, wondering if many of them had well loved hands, either of life or death, as bolts upon the doors which held them from more spacious countries, holding them so securely because they could be so easily brushed away. It was people, people of the crowds, who saved her from a sense of isolation her own friends brought: for she was always certain that in the crowds was some one else who was wondering, longing,
