pected it from you,” he said angrily, with teeth clenched.
“You see, Jiří, there . . . in that house,” she spoke with difficulty, “then . . . you know . . . that night when you went away . . . you only gave me your hand . . . then I was thankful to you . . . with all my heart. . . .”
Lucy stopped. Something told her that she had intended to tell him something else,—what it was, she did not know herself,—she only motioned with her hand:
“I do not blame you for anything . . . fate has decided otherwise . . .” and again she was silent.
“God be with you,” she said half aloud, as she quickly took up her hat.
Jiří saw the situation in a flash: she would actually go away, he had driven her away. . . . . A touch of pity passed through his soul, and again there flashed through his mind: the elections . . . the future career . . . the ýs Gazette . . . . the tax collector’s
