illuminated the basement with small lamps and red shades edged with
pearl fringes.

Jeanne is equally enchanted. When she goes outside without a hat her
hair looks like a burning torch against the snow. She does not speak,
but hums to herself, and walks more lightly and softly than ever, as
though she feared to waken some sleeper.

... I remember how Malthe and I were once talking about Greece, and he
gave me an account of a snowstorm in Delphi. I cannot recall a word of
his description; I was not listening, but just thinking how the snow
would melt when it fell upon his head.

He has fulfilled my request not to write. I have not had a line since
his only letter came. And yet....

* * * * *

I have burnt his letter.

I have burnt his letter. A few ashes are all that remain to me.

It hurts me to look at the ashes. I cannot make up my mind to throw them
away.

I have got rid of the ashes. It was harder than I thought. Even now I
am restless.

* * * * *