Often when she raised a hand it seemed as if she could not even let it fall, as if it must remain poised by some curious inertia.

Still, she went to the shop every day and did her work faithfully.

She pasted linings in shoes, and her slender little fingers used to fly as if they were driven by some more subtle machine than any in the factory.

Often Maria felt vaguely as if she were in the grasp of some mighty machine worked by a mighty operator; she felt, as she pasted the linings, as if she herself were also a part of some monstrous scheme of work under greater hands than hers, and there was never any getting back of it.
And always with it all there was that ceaseless, helpless, bewildered longing for something, she was afraid to think what, which often saps the strength and life of a young girl.

Maria had never had a lover in her life; she had not even good comrades among young men, as her sister had.