Anastasia remains sickly, too frightened to reveal herself. Chased away by Nurse Malinovsky. When the fraulein looks at her beloved, tattered photograph it no longer has the piteous gaze of an icon. It has the glassy look of history, dead History. Where has she gone? What dark corner has she crept into? What is she afraid of? The fraulein feels motherly concern for her, wandering aimlessly through the wards, searching the garden, pressing her nose against the window of the library (after all, that is where she was born). She wants to call out - Anastasia - Making shushing sounds as if to a cowering kitten. But words, she knows, are useless.