And so he would have
liked to do here. What a gem could be made of Isadore with a little careful
polishing.
But Deborah's way was different. She stayed in life, lived in it close,
with its sharp edges bristling. In this there was something splendid, but
there was something tragic, too. It was all very well for that young Jew to
burn himself up with his talk about freedom, his feverish searching for new
gods. "In five years," Roger told himself, "Mr. Isadore Freedom will either
tone down or go stark mad."
But quite probably he would tone down, for he was only a youngster, these
were Isadore's wild oats. But this was no longer Deborah's youth, she had
been at this job ten years. And she hadn't gone mad, she had kept herself
sane, she had many sides her father knew. He knew her in the mountains, or
bustling about at home getting ready for Laura's wedding, or packing
Edith's children off for their summer up at the farm. But did that make it
any easier? No. To let yourself go was easy, but to keep hold of yourself
was hard. It meant wear and tear on a woman, this constant straining effort
to keep her balance and see life whole.
"Well, it will break her down, that's all, and I don't propose to allow
it," he thought. "She's got to rest this summer and go easier next fall."
But how could he accomplish it? As he thought about her school, with its
long and generous arms reaching upon every side out into the tenements, the
prospect was bewildering.
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