Lucy suddenly motioned with her hand, and faintly whispered: “Perhaps to-morrow. . . .”
And she turned back . . . she dragged herself hurriedly away, as if crushed. Her head drooped to one side, like a flower half plucked. Her hands hung down as though dead. Her sunshade struck the stones of the pavement with its point. She walked along in ber black dress which daintily veiled her breast, and walked back into the gay whirlpool of men. She walked slowly, as though going to the gallows. She went only a few hundred steps . . . to the house where the blinds were drawn in all the windows . . . she raised her hand . . . she pressed the handle of the door . . . she opened it. . . .
Eight o’clock. The bells are tolling over Prague. The proud harmonious tones fall upon this scene of animation. A sacred moment. Over this extinct sultry day, over this sea of red roofs, over this varied mass of
