worthless life! Her room of former days stood before her. There, in that house, she saw herself clearly before the mirror,—she was combing her hair. . . .
“Only once we live down here.”
She almost felt that in the bagnio she was happier. . . . What would be next? She shuddered. The presentiment of some dark, terrible catastrophe chilled her.
It was evening, The tables were lighted. The colored lamps that were strung on poles between them were swinging to and fro. The people were surging up and down on the island. Confectioner Curček, a clever local pyrotechnist, sent up a swarm of colored rockets.
The doctor leaned for a moment down to Lucy, pinched her cheek, and, looking provokingly into her eyes, asked her: “Well, what do you say, deary?” That tone reminded her again of that house, of that life. She looked scornfully at him, but did not say a word.
