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 celluloid keys of the tinny piano in the Infants' Classroom. She played wildly, with a kind of shameless abandon, as if she wanted to pour out her whole story of justification; and the others, taking fire from her spirit, sang as they had never sung before.

During the afternoon, the old Naomi—the stubborn, sure Naomi of Megambo—had come to life again in some mysterious fashion. She even put on the new foulard dress in a gesture of defiance to show them—Philip and his mother—that, however "funny-looking" it might be, she was proud of it. And then neither of them had seen her wearing it, Philip because she was avoiding him, and Emma because chance had not brought them together. She had gone up to Mabelle's bent upon telling her that she had come to the end of her endurance. She had meant to ask Mabelle's advice, because Mabelle was very shrewd about such matters.

And then when she found herself seated opposite Mabelle she discovered that she couldn't bring herself to say what she meant to say. She couldn't humble her pride sufficiently to tell even Mabelle how Philip treated her. She had finally gone home and then returned a second time, but it was no use. She couldn't speak of it: she was too proud. And she knew, too, that whatever happened she must protect Philip. It wasn't, she told herself, as if he were himself, as he had been at Megambo. He was sick. He really wasn't responsible. She cried when she thought how she loved him now; if he would only notice her, she would let him trample her body in the dust. Mabelle's near-sighted blue eyes noted nothing. She went on rocking and rocking, talking incessantly of clothes and food