I can hardly see her through the fog.
She sits there like a shadow, an apparition, and the fog floats over her
red hair like smoke over a fire.
I know nothing whatever about her. She is as reserved about her own
concerns as I am about mine. Yet I feel as though during this hour of
intense fear and agitation I had seen into the depths of her soul. I
understand her, because we are both women. She suffers from the eternal
unrest of the blood.
She has had a shock to her inmost feelings. At some time or other she
has been so deeply wounded that she cannot live again in peace.
She and I have so much in common that we might be blood-relations. But
we ought not to live under the same roof as mistress and servant.
* * * * *
Gradually the fog is dispersing, and the lights burn brighter. I seem to
follow Jeanne's dreams as they pass beneath her brow. Her mouth has
fallen a little open, as if she were dead. Every moment she starts up;
but when she sees me she smiles and drops off again.
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