"For the love of God thou oughtest cheerfully to undergo all things, that is to say, all labor and pain, temptation, vexation, anxiety, necessity, infirmity, injury, obloquy, reproof, humiliation, confusion, correction and scorn."
Perhaps it was true. Perhaps there was such peace to be had on earth. In the end she would find it, like Jean, and be content. It was all over now. I am old, I am old.
"Nevertheless in all these they bore themselves patiently, and trusted rather in God than in themselves; knowing that 'the sufferings of the present time are not worthy to be compared with the glory that should be revealed in them.' . . ."
There was a bell ringing again, distantly, ardently. Perhaps it was he. O God, send me Oreste! Just this once . . . this last time. Why isn't Ottilia answering it? O God, send me Oreste!
She rose, thinking, "This is not true." It is a nightmare. In the hall she thought, "I dare not open the door. If I open it, it will change into someone else. I dare not touch the handle. I will call out his name. Then it can't change into someone else."
She stood trembling, making a great effort, and at last she was able to say in a weak voice, "Oreste."
From the other side came his voice, the voice.
"Anna. Let me in."
She tore open the door and he stood there telling her that he had had an accident in a remote valley. And she thought, "I must not cry. When I cry I look old." But her whole body was shaking with sobs. For no reason at all she was suddenly aware
