Summer 1949 • Vol. XI No. 3 Fiction |

It Almost Happened

Although we rose at seven our day really began at eight, when the farm bell outside the main house rang loudly in its square gallowslike frame. A few moments later we hurried to the stone barn, passing the alley of maple trees that was the only road to the outer world. We sat on narrow benches covered with thin green cushions, in a low-ceilinged room with whitewashed walls. Silence covered us with a thick blanket. This was the hour when the good Quakers waited for the Inner Light to shine and the Inner Voice to speak. We who were strangers among them waited too, although what we were waiting for would have been hard to define in Quaker terms. We had come a long way to this soberly white room where volumes of George Fox and William Penn stood on dusty shelves. The Serb had come from a prison camp in Italy; the Frenchman from Africa after his son had been executed as a member of the Resistance and his wife had committed suicide; the rheumatic German housewife with two canes from s

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Although we rose at seven our day really began at eight, when the farm bell outside the main house rang loudly in its square gallowslike frame. A few moments later […]

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Although we rose at seven our day really began at eight, when the farm bell outside the main house rang loudly in its square gallowslike frame. A few moments later […]

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