"On the journey to Antwerp Reb Baruch Laib went out of his way to create still further unpleasantness. The trouble this time was a book which Deborah had picked up from her mother (who had just finished with it), and to which she now turned eagerly to while the time away. Before long she had become deeply absorbed in its pages-it was a Life of Moses Mendelssohn-and her heart bled as she followed the adventures of this poor suffering philosopher-hunchback. His indomitable struggle against his own physical infirmity and external antagonism aroused her deepest admiration. The account of how the authorities turned him back from all the gates of the city of Berlin, filled her with profound pity for the bright-eyed cripple, who, intellectually and spiritually, towered so high above the common clay that barred his way; and she was filled with hatred and contempt for the police who played such an abominable part in the drama. His ultimate triumph over untold opposition was like a personal victory of her own, and how she exulted! She was so carried away that her own life was forgotten. But Reb Baruch Laib took care that this forgetfulness should be short-lived. "There can be no doubt about it now," he fumed. "She's a freethinker ! Look, she's reading the biography of that heretic Mendelssohn!...""