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She
took
a
shower
,
and
stood
for
long
,
blank
minutes
,
letting
the
water
run
over
her
body
,
but
stepped
out
hastily
when
she
realized
that
what
she
wanted
to
wash
off
was
not
the
dust
of
the
drive
from
the
country
,
but
the
feel
of
the
office
.
She
dressed
,
lighted
a
cigarette
and
walked
into
the
living
room
,
to
stand
at
the
window
,
looking
at
the
city
,
as
she
had
stood
looking
at
the
countryside
at
the
start
of
this
day
.
She
had
said
she
would
give
her
life
for
one
more
year
on
the
railroad
.
She
was
back
;
but
this
was
not
the
joy
of
working
;
it
was
only
the
clear
,
cold
peace
of
a
decision
reached
—
and
the
stillness
of
unadmitted
pain
.
Clouds
had
wrapped
the
sky
and
had
descended
as
fog
to
wrap
the
streets
below
,
as
if
the
sky
were
engulfing
the
city
.
She
could
see
the
whole
of
Manhattan
Island
,
a
long
,
triangular
shape
cutting
into
an
invisible
ocean
.
It
looked
like
the
prow
of
a
sinking
ship
;
a
few
tall
buildings
still
rose
above
it
,
like
funnels
,
but
the
rest
was
disappearing
under
gray
-
blue
coils
,
going
down
slowly
into
vapor
and
space
.
This
was
how
they
had
gone
—
she
thought
—
Atlantis
,
the
city
that
sank
into
the
ocean
,
and
all
the
other
kingdoms
that
vanished
,
leaving
the
same
legend
in
all
the
languages
of
men
,
and
the
same
longing
.
She
felt
—
as
she
had
felt
it
one
spring
night
,
slumped
across
her
desk
in
the
crumbling
office
of
the
John
Galt
Line
,
by
a
window
facing
a
dark
alley
—
the
sense
and
vision
of
her
own
world
,
which
she
would
never
reach
.
.
.
You
—
she
thought
—
whoever
you
are
,
whom
I
have
always
loved
and
never
found
,
you
whom
I
expected
to
see
at
the
end
of
the
rails
beyond
the
horizon
,
you
whose
presence
I
had
always
felt
in
the
streets
of
the
city
and
whose
world
I
had
wanted
to
build
,
it
is
my
love
for
you
that
had
kept
me
moving
,
my
love
and
my
hope
to
reach
you
and
my
wish
to
be
worthy
of
you
on
the
day
when
I
would
stand
before
you
face
to
face
.
Now
I
know
that
I
shall
never
find
you
—
that
it
is
not
to
be
reached
or
lived
—
but
what
is
left
of
my
life
is
still
yours
,
and
I
will
go
on
in
your
name
,
even
though
it
is
a
name
I
’
ll
never
learn
,
I
will
go
on
serving
you
,
even
though
I
’
m
never
to
win
,
I
will
go
on
,
to
be
worthy
of
you
on
the
day
when
I
would
have
met
you
,
even
though
I
won
’
t
.
.
.
She
had
never
accepted
hopelessness
,
but
she
stood
at
the
window
and
,
addressed
to
the
shape
of
a
fogbound
city
,
it
was
her
self
-
dedication
to
unrequited
love
.
The
doorbell
rang
.
She
turned
with
indifferent
astonishment
to
open
,
the
door
—
but
she
knew
that
she
should
have
expected
him
,
when
she
saw
that
it
was
Francisco
d
’
Anconia
.
She
felt
no
shock
and
no
rebellion
,
only
the
cheerless
serenity
of
her
assurance
—
and
she
raised
her
head
to
face
him
,
with
a
slow
,
deliberate
movement
,
as
if
telling
him
that
she
had
chosen
her
stand
and
that
she
stood
in
the
open
.
