“What good would it do? How will it help me? No, I do not think, and there is no time for such foolishness as thinking.”
My hero was in a strange state. A certain solemn moral rectitude took possession of him. Every word which he spoke hovered for a while in his soul. He secretly admired himself, and somehow valued himself more highly on account of the wealth of morality which was suddenly manifested within him. He was, however, unpleasantly irritated by the calm of the girl. He would have preferred to see her sad, and in tears; would have wished to hear some story colored with romance; would have liked to see her press her hands to her brow in despair,—but no. She sat opposite him at a small table in her narrow room, her hands resting in ber lap, her blue eyes, two brilliant points beaming in the pupils, looking into the flame of the lamp.
From below came the sounds of the piano, laughter and trampling of feet, but softly
