tremendous just to live. Like your Honzik, like a cat, like a chicken, Every animal understands that . . . and it seems to me so terrific, as if I have never lived before. And so . . . so I’ve again lost twelve years.”
His deformed right hand, sewn up God knows how many times, trembled on the wall. Annie was silent; she was resting her arms on the brick wall and looking up at the stars. Then something rustled in the shrubbery and Annie became frightened; she threw herself on Prokop’s shoulder. “What’s that?”
“Nothing; probably a marten; they come right into the yard after the chickens.”
Annie was reassured. Her young breasts, full and soft, were resting against Prokop’s right hand. She, perhaps, did not realize the fact herself, but Prokop was more aware of it than of anything else in the world. He was terribly afraid of moving his hand, for, in the first place, Annie would think that he had put it there on purpose, and in the second place, she would draw away from him. Curiously enough, as a result of this circumstance, he was unable to talk any further about himself and his wasted life. “I’ve” he stammered in confusion, “I’ve never been so glad . . . so happy, as I am now. Your father is the finest man in the world, and you . . . you are so young . . .”
“I thought that you found me . . . too stupid,” said Annie quietly and happily. “You never spoke like that with me before.”
“True, never before,” said Prokop gruffly. Both became silent. He felt against his hand the light
