She was washing dishes. Her small back hunched over the sink. Cholly saw her dimly and could not tell what he saw or what he felt … The sequence of his emotions was revulsion, guilt, pity, then love. His revulsion was a reaction to her young, helpless, hopeless presence. Her back hunched that way; her head to one side as though crouching from a permanent and unrelieved blow. Why did she have to look so whipped? She was a child - unburdened - why wasn't she happy? The clear statement of her misery was an accusation … Guilt and impotence rose in a bilious duet. What could he do for her - ever? What give her? What say to her? What could a burned-out black man say to the hunched back of his eleven-year-old daughter? If he looked into her face, he would see those haunted loving eyes. The hauntedness would irritate him - the love would move him to fury. How dare she love him? Hadn't she any sense at all? What was he supposed to do about that? Return it? How? What could his calloused hands produce to make her smile? What of his knowledge of the world and of life could be useful to her? What could his own heavy arms and befuddled brain accomplish that would earn him his own respect, that would in turn allow him to accept her love?