Small round hands on my sleeves, round dark blue eyes⁠—it was O-90 . She just slipped along my body like a unif which, its hanger broken, slips along the wall to fall upon the floor. Like a little bundle she crumpled below me on the cold doorstep, and I stood over her, stroking her head, her face⁠—my hands were wet. I felt as if I were very big and she very small, a small part of myself. I felt something quite different from what I feel towards I-330 . I think that the ancients must have had similar feelings towards their private children.

Below, passing through her hands with which she was covering her face, a voice came to me:

“Every night I⁠ ⁠… I cannot! If they cure me.⁠ ⁠… Every night I sit in the darkness alone and think of him , and of what he will look like when I.⁠ ⁠… If cured I should have nothing to live with⁠—do you understand me? You must⁠ ⁠… you must.⁠ ⁠…”