the name of the bank? And the other ten thousand she scraped together nobody knows how; for it was made up of small notes, miserable, soiled five-crown notes, tousled rags from God knows whose hands, shabby money from women’s purses. God! what a frightful time she must have had before she got this handful of money together! “He was unforgettably kind to me. . . .” And that moment Prokop would have pounded Thomas to death, that low, shameless scoundrel; but at the same time he somehow forgave him . . . since he was not her lover! She did not belong to Thomas . . . that certainly signified at the least that she was a pure and beautiful angel; and it was as if some unknown wound suddenly healed in his heart.
Yes, to find her; before everything . . . before everything he must return her her money (he was not in the least ashamed of forming such a pretext) and say that . . . that, in short . . . she could depend on him. . . . “He was unforgettably kind.” Prokop clasped his hands. . . . God! what would he not do to earn such words from her
Oh, how slowly the train was going!
