Lucy’s life flowed listlessly along, like a long autumn day. No pain, no bitterness disturbed her, for her soul no longer had any strength for eruptive ebullitions. A dull resignation, like a November cloud from which no storm issues, veiled her thoughts. She sat at the window, mechanically knitting, while her eyes roamed over the waving clover fleld, without seeing it. Only common, every-day thoughts passed through her mind.
Frequently a word occurred to her, and it kept on repeating itself inwardly; she heard it, she understood it, until she said: “Lo, this word,—how foolish it is!” Or there occurred to her a novel which she had read some time before: a scene which then had in no way impressed itself upon her, now stood out vividly; she saw its characters walking, speaking, and smiling,—but it all lasted so long, and those people seemed unable to get through. Lucy impatiently moved her hand, as if to hurry them up, but immediately she thought: “How foolish I am!”
