There is one part of your soul unscarred, and it wears the marks of suffering like a lilywhite newborn. Oh, it has lived (it has been around some, this smooth word) and it pours forth, like the seasons in inconceivable surity: fruit forever. All rich virtues ripen there. Whether it is the divinity of the blood the brightness of its purity the warmth of feeling - the soul can't say. All it knows is what comes forth. Mary, too, was astounded by fruit.