Page:Storm Over Paris.pdf/88

he do without his prayer-house, and his stories, and the village? For him it would be spiritual suicide." She was silent for a moment, and then went on. "Wherever the tree takes root, there your home should be."

"Yet you left your home," Gertrude remarked.

Impetuously Anna flounced up from the bed. "I didn't leave my home. My home spewed me out. My home never properly digested me. I always stuck like a bone in its throat. Whose fault was it, you ask? Well, we won't go into that now. One thing is clear to me. The warmth and kindness of the western world have helped bridge the abyss that the others dug between us. I just lack a bit more courage to cross over it entirely." The last sentence came out hesitatingly, like a slip of the soul.

Gertrude did not understand what Anna meant. But she could tell by the earnest tone that something was pressing heavily upon her cousin.

"You're talking in riddles, Anna," she said. "Almost like my Morris. What is it? Are you, too, upset by the injustice of the world?"

Anna stared at her sharply. "And what if I am?" she almost shouted.

"Something is eating you my dear," Gertrude probed her. "Tell me the truth-"

"There's only one truth-and that truth is for all," Anna shot back dubiously.

"Who's that 'we' you're talking about?" Gertrude demanded with a wry smile on her lips. It was as though she was deliberately provoking Anna, hoping to learn from her the inner meanings she couldn't discover from her husband. She enjoyed the cat-and-mouse game, this effort to worry her into a confession. "Who is this 'we'?" she repeated, eyeing her sharply.