"What do you hear?"
"Life: the whole of life itself. . . . Things of the past; things of the future; and all big and tremendous. . . . When I listen to the wind, the past becomes immense and the future tremendous. . . . and I remain so small, so small. . . ."
"What you remain, child, is a dreamer. . . ."
"No, I haven't remained so. . . . I may have become one again. . . ."
"Yes, you have become one again. . . . I recognize you like this absolutely, just as you were as a slim, fair-haired little girl, the same little fairy-like vision. . . . How long ago it all is, Connie! . . . How everything melts away in our lives! . . . How old we grow! . . ."
"But all your children: they keep you young. They all . . . they all belong to the future. . . ."
"Yes, if only I myself . . ."
"What?"
"Nothing."
"What were you going to say?"
"I was going to own up to something. I was going to confess to you. But why should I? It's better not. It would be very weak of me. It's better not. It's better that I shouldn't speak."
"Gerrit . . . Gerrit, dear . . . tell me . . . is there . . . is there . . .?"
"What? . . ."
"Is there anything? . . ."
