this new inner life of thinking and feeling, this new life of her soul, were also about to begin a new actual life, a life of fresh seasons, which lay spread before her broad and generous as summer and towards which she would fly in joyous haste, because it was already so late . . . but not yet too late, not yet too late . . .
She thought of herself, for the first time that day; and a violent emotion throbbed within her, almost taking away her breath. Henri would be back presently: would he tell her that that was best, that they would separate, with still something of affection and gratitude for each other, heedless of people and of everything that made up their world, because they were at last entitled to their own happiness, to the happiness of their own souls and to the happiness of those who loved them really? They would shake from them all that had been falsehood during all those long, long years; and they would now be true, honest with themselves and with every one; and they would be happy . . . It was as if these dreams were already lifting her up out of the ring of falsehood, the ring of small people, small souls. Sitting there in her chair, she hid her face in her hands, compressed her closed eyes until, in their blindness, they saw all the colours of the rainbow flashing before them . . . so as not to see her room, so as to see nothing but her dreams. . . .
"Mamma! . . ."
