It was not so much that
she did not move unnecessarily as that it was not necessary for her to
move at all, since she invariably found herself in the middle of
whatever was going on. While life bustled anxiously about her,
hurrying to accomplish various ends, she remained calm and contented
at the centre, completely satisfied, mistress of it all. And her face
was symbolic of her entire being; whereas so many faces seem
unfinished, hers was complete--globular like the heavenly bodies,
circular like the sun, arms and legs unnecessary. The best of
everything came to her _because_ she did not run after it. There was
no hurry. Time did not worry her. Circular and self-sustaining, she
already seemed to dwell in Eternity.
"And this little person," one of these inquisitive, interfering
visitors would ask, smiling fatuously; "how old is she, I wonder?"
"Seven," was the answer of the Authority in charge.
Maria's eyes rolled sideways, and a little upwards. She looked at the
foolish questioner; the Authority who had answered was not worth a
glance.
"No," she said flatly, with sublime defiance, "I'm more. I'm in my
eighth year, you see.
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