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She took up her shawl and left the house.  She wandered through the bustling streets.  The women chattered tirelessly.  They entered the public baths, paid their fees, and entered the steaming water.  Acte drew apart earlier than the others and sat by herself, drying her long blonde hair.  She couldn’t breathe.  Air,  she needed air…Without speaking to anyone, she took up her clothes and slipped away.  And suddenly there was air and wonderful noise.  The dusty brick road was harsh beneath her bare feet, the hot wind tugged listlessly at her gown.  She walked slowly and deliberately, not caring where she went.  Reality receded as she made her blind pilgrimage from her private hell.  No one followed her.  No one noticed her.  The sun hit its zenith and she stopped to rest awhile beside the public well.  She was tired and hungry, dizzy and displaced.  She sat on a stone bench that bore its marks of human abuse stolidly.  She watched a group of children at play.  They were hopping to a child’s tune, their little legs pumping, their atonal voices piping, their small faces alight.  When they realized that she was watching them, they fell silent and stared at her mistrustfully.  Finally, with some hesitation a small, curly-haired boy left the group and approached her.
“Are you lost, Pretty Lady?”
“More lost than I can say.”
His grave countenance deepened with concern as she suddenly covered her face with her hands and wept.  She wept for her own children.  She wept for herself.
“Don’t cry.  Don’t you know that He is risen?”
Acte choked to a stop.  “What did you say?”
They boy was flustered.  He grew fearful.  “I didn’t say anything.”
“You did!  You said someone came back from the dead!”
“I didn’t!”  he shouted, backing away from her.