going here, to his father, but he did not do so; now that’s odd; after that he slept or something
Then the bell rang, briefly and gently; he went and opened the door and outside was standing a girl with a veil over her face.
Prokop groaned and covered his face with his hands. He forgot completely that he was sitting on the very seat where the night before he had been caressing and consoling somebody else. “Does Mr. Thomas live here?” she asked, out of breath; probably she had been running, her fur was covered with rain drops and suddenly, suddenly she raised her eyes
Prokop nearly cried out with pain. He saw her as she had been that evening; hands, little hands in tight gloves, drops of moisture from her breath on her thick veil, a clear glance, full of suffering; beautiful, sad and brave, “you will save him, won’t you?” She looked at him with serious, troubled eyes, and all the time was gripping in her hand some sort of a package, a sealed package, pressing it to her bosom agitatedly and trying to keep control of herself.
It was as if Prokop had received a blow in the face. Where did I put that package? Whoever that girl may be, I promised her that I would take it to Thomas. While I was ill . . . I forgot everything; because I . . . or rather . . . he did not like to think about it. But now—now I must find it, that’s clear.
He rushed up to his room and pulled out all the drawers. No, no, no, it’s not here. For the twen-
