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           Onlythatshenevercomplained,thatshehadthegift—orwasitthecurse?—ofacceptance.Nomatterwhathadgoneorwhatmightcome,sheconfronteditandacceptedit,storeditawaytofuelthefurnaceofherbeing.Whathadtaughtherthat?Coulditbetaught?Orwashisideaofherafigmentofhisownfantasies?Diditreallymatter?Whichwasmoreimportant:whatshetrulywas,orwhathethoughtshewas?

           "Oh,Meggie,"hesaidhelplessly.

           Sheturnedhergazetohimandoutofherpaingavehimasmileofabsolute,overflowinglove,nothinginitheldback,thetaboosandinhibitionsofwomanhoodnotyetapartofherworld.Tobesolovedshookhim,consumedhim,madehimwishtotheGodWhoseexistencehesometimesdoubtedthathewasanyoneintheuniversebutRalphdeBricassart.Wasthisit,theunknownthing?Oh,God,whydidheloveherso?Butasusualnooneansweredhim;andMeggiesatstillsmilingathim.

           AtdawnFeegotuptomakebreakfast,Stuarthelpingher,thenMrs.SmithcamebackwithMinnieandCat,andthefourwomenstoodtogetherbythestovetalkinginhushedmonotones,boundinsomeleagueofgriefneitherMeggienorthepriestunderstood.AfterthemealMeggiewenttolinethelittlewoodenboxtheboyshadmade,planedsmoothandvarnished.SilentlyFeehadgivenherawhitesatineveninggownlongsincegonetothehueofivorywithage,andshefittedstripsofittothehardcontoursoftheboxinterior.