When he returned he was still silent, crushed, bowed. "Zora has moments of madness," he said. "She's been threatening people in the street lately. I'm so afraid the police may catch her and put her in an institution."

"You don't care about the people she might kill, do you?"

"I do care, Djuna. If she had killed you I don't think I could ever have forgiven her. But you aren't angry, when you have a right to be. You're generous and good..."

"No, Rango. I can't let you believe that. It isn't true. I have often wished Zora's death, but I only had the courage to wish it... I had a dream one night in which I saw myself killing her with a long old-fashioned hatpin. Do you realize where she got the idea of the hatpin? From my own dream, which I told her. She was being more courageous, more honest, when she attacked me."

Rango took his head in his hands and swayed back and forth as if in pain. A dry sob came out of his chest.

"Oh, Rango, I can't bear this any more. I will go away. Then you'll have peace with Zora."

"Something else happened today, Djuna, something which reminded me of some of the things you said. Something so terrible that I did not want to see you tonight. I don't know what instinct of danger made me come, after all. But what happened tonight is worse than Zora's fit of madness. You know that once a month the workers of the party belonging to a certain group meet for what they call autocriticism. It's part of the discipline. It's done with kindness, great objectivity, and very justly. I have been at such meetings. A man's way of working, his character traits, are analyzed. Last night it was my turn. The men who sat in a circle, they were the ones I see every day, the butcher, the postman, the grocer, the shoemaker on my own street. The head of our particular section is the bus driver. At first, you know, they had been doubtful about signing me in. They knew I was an artist, a bohemian, an intellectual. But they liked me...and they took me in. I've worked for them two months now. Then last night..."