She looked outside, she smiled. Sometimes she heard her husband's step in the passages, as he went through the house, grumbling, muttering, cursing, because he wanted to go out . . . Then she would think for a moment:
"He hasn't seen Marianne for days."
But then she would think no more about either of them; and her dream shone out before her again. The dream shone softly and unfalteringly, like a gentle, steady ray: a path of soft light that issued as it were from her eyes to the sombre, frowning clouds out yonder. Over the soft-shining path something seemed to be wafted from her outwards, upwards, far and wide and then back again, to where she sat . . . It was so strange that she smiled at it, closed her eyes; and, when she opened them, it was once more as though she saw her dream, that path of light, always . . . Her dream took no more definite shape and remained thus, a gentle, kindly glow, a pale, soft ray from her to the sombre skies . . . It was dusk now and she sat on, quite lost in the misty, shadowy darkness all around her, quite invisible in the black room; and her eyes continued to stare outside, at the last wan streaks in the darkening heavens . . . The road outside was black . . . A street-lamp shone out, throwing its harsh light upon a puddle . . .
Then she covered her face with her hands, ashamed because she had sat musing so long,
