She wondered if it were true she was getting hard.  Something in her did seem hardening.  At any rate, something in her was wanting to fight, fight for air, fight, no matter who must be hurt in the struggle, for that bigger country into which she had looked, those greater distances, more spacious sweeps.  Sometimes she had a sense of being in a close room, and nothing in the world was so dreadful to Katie as a close room, and felt that she had but to open a door and find herself out where the wind would blow upon her face.  And the door was not bolted.  It was hers to open, if she would.  There were no real chains.  There were only dead hands, hands which live hands had power to brush away.  And the room was made close by all those things which they of the dead hands had loved, things which they had served, things which, for them, had been out in the open, not making the air unbearable in a close room.  And when she wanted to tell them that she must get out of the room because it was too close for her, that she could no longer stay with things which shut out the air, it seemed they could not understand—­for they were dead, but they could look at her with love and trust, those hands, which could have been so easily brushed away, as bolts on the door of the room holding the things they had left for her to guard.

And they were proud, and their trusting eyes seemed to say they knew she would not make all their world sorry for them.

She walked slowly across Pont du Carrousel, watching the people, the people going their many ways, meeting their many problems, wondering if many of them had well loved hands, either of life or death, as bolts upon the doors which held them from more spacious countries, holding them so securely because they could be so easily brushed away.  It was people, people of the crowds, who saved her from a sense of isolation her own friends brought:  for she was always certain that in the crowds was some one else who was wondering, longing, perhaps a courageous some one who was fighting.

Paris itself had fought, was fighting all the time.  She loved it anew in the new sense of its hurts and its hopes.  And always it had laughed.  She felt kinship to it in that.  Seeming so little caring, yet so deeply understanding.  The laughter-loving city had paid stern price that its children might laugh.  It seemed to her sometimes that one could love and hate Paris for every known reason, but in the end always love for the full measure it gave.  She stood for a moment looking at the spire of Sainte Chapelle, slender as a fancy, yet standing out like a conviction; watching the people on the busses, the gesticulating crowds—­blockades of emotion, the men on the Quai rummaging among the book-stalls for possible treasures left by men who had loved it long before, looking at the thanks in stone for yesterday’s vision of to-morrow, and everywhere cabs—­as words carrying ideas—­breathlessly bearing eager people from one vivid point to another in the hurrying, highly-pitched, articulate city.