Hanka spoke first; she smiled to Ojen and said, out of the goodness
of her heart:
"Oh, you Ojen, you Ojen! How everything you write seems evanescent,
ethereal! 'Mute exhalations from the crowds'--I can hear it; I can feel
it! It is thrilling!"
Everybody thought so, too, and Ojen was happy. Happiness was very becoming
to his girlish face.
"Oh, it is only a little thing, a mood," he said. He would have liked to
hear Paulsberg's opinion, but Paulsberg remained sphinxlike and silent.
"How _do_ you think of such things? These prose poems are really
exquisite!"
"It is my temperament, I suppose. I have no taste for fiction. In me
everything turns to poetry, with or without rhymes; but verses always. I
have entirely ceased to use rhymes lately."
"But tell me--in what manner does your nervousness really affect you?"
asked Mrs. Hanka in her gentle voice. "It is so very sad; you must really
try to get well again."
"Yes, I'll try. It is hard to explain; at times I will suddenly become
excited without the slightest reason. I shudder; I simply tear myself to
pieces. Then I cannot bear to walk on carpets; if I should lose anything I
should never find it again.
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