smoothing her hair: “May the Lord give you happiness, my angel!” she heard her whispering.
She was heavy with grief, and she felt like weeping: “Why did that man come? Why did he tear away from my eyes the veil through which I had been looking at the world and at myself? And at my life!—‘Judged . . . and outcast?—Will he come to-day?”—And she was worried lest he should not come.
She heard steps, and she recognized them.
She rapidly cast a look into the mirror, and with her soft hand smoothed the hair over her brow. Jiří entered, faultlessly polite, his hat in his hand, and, as ever, with a civil greeting upon his lips.
The first raindrops were beating against the windowpanes. There was lightning and thunder.
He sat opposite her and again looked at those eyes that formerly were gay and smiling, but now veiled with sadness. He
