its own sound. And I saw my white lilies plunged in that sea of tainted blood!
"So I repulsed him, as I would have repulsed a foe. And here," she concluded suddenly, in a falsetto of spasmodic laughter, "here my little idyll comes to an end."
"But do you love the man still?"
"I do."
From the farmyard comes the crowing of a cock: as a key that grates in a rusty lock, it grates on our ears. Dawn is here.
I like the man; or it may be that I rather like his surroundings, inseparably connected in thought with him. I like those rooms of severe aspect, with their high ceilings, and shelves which are nearly as high filled with books, all in regular order and bound in black. I like the great table in the centre, lit up with bright lamps, and strewn with periodicals in every language. I like, too, those heavy, comfortable, leather-covered arm-chairs which stand round it. Obojanski also I like, who in this environment is a handsome man, with grey hair and eyes dark and youthful.
Formerly my professor, Obojanski has been extremely useful to me in my studies. The
