Jenny has a daughter fourteen years old. Today it is her scene.

The young actress is soft and delicate, with a clear voice. It is easy to recognize Linn in her a few years hence, to discover this with tenderness and wistfulness.

I try to picture to myself how I was when I was that young, but I find that my recollection doesn’t go back that far.

Sometimes I feel an anger that I shall never be her again, soft again, have all life’s potential within me. And before me.

How strange it is to sit looking at her and know that I am close to middle age, to see in her eyes that she doesn’t understand that I, too, am fourteen, and wish only for a short time to be her.

Years pass by so quickly and already form a cleft of time that cannot be recrossed between me and what I once was.

Two little girls are sitting and talking together—but one of them is not seen by the other.