How could she think it
possible to shed her past life, like a garment? Those
impressionable years, between fourteen and twenty-four,
could never be cast off. She might don a new cloak to cover
the old dress beneath, but the old would always be there,
its folds peeping out here and there, its outlines plainly
to be seen. She might eat of things rare, and drink of
things costly, but the sturdy, stocky little girl in the
made-over silk dress, who had resisted the Devil in
Weinberg's pantry on that long-ago Day of Atonement, would
always be there at the feast. Myself, I confess I am tired
of these stories of young women who go to the big city,
there to do battle with failure, to grapple with temptation,
sin and discouragement. So it may as well be admitted
that Fanny Brandeis' story was not that of a painful hand-
over-hand climb. She was made for success. What she
attempted, she accomplished. That which she strove for, she
won. She was too sure, too vital, too electric, for
failure. No, Fanny Brandeis' struggle went on inside.
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