She grew perhaps a shade paler, and she glanced out into the street, where her four-wheeler cab, laden with luggage, was still waiting. The signal of distress was evidently understood. She read beautifully because the fixed form of the poem signified nothing. God gives us an equal chance; but we make ourselves. She pointed hither and yon, smiled and shook her head. “I don’t know much about the technique of music,” he said at last, with his eyes upon her. I want to shout! I want to sing! I am glad! I am glad to be alive because you are alive! I am glad to be a woman because you are a man! I am glad! I am glad! I am glad! I thank God for life and you. .
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