She
felt hollow and empty; the last little illusion to which she had clung so
tenaciously had collapsed miserably. Somebody's step sounded on the
stairs; she did not remember whether or no the door was locked, but she
did not go and make sure. The steps died down again; nobody knocked.
"Dearest Hanka," he said in an effort to console her as best he might,
"you ought to start in in earnest and write that novel we have talked
about. I am sure you could do it, and I will gladly go over the manuscript
for you. The effort, the concentration would do you good; you know I want
to see you content and satisfied."
Yes, once upon a time, she had really thought she would write a novel. Why
not? _Here_ one miss bobbed up, and _there_ another madam bobbed
up, and they all did write so cutely! Yes, she had really thought that it
was her turn next. And how they all had encouraged her! Thank God, she had
forgotten about it until now!
"You do not answer, Hanka?"
"Yes," she said absently, "there is something in what you say."
She got up suddenly and stood erect staring straight ahead. If she only
knew what to do now! Go home? That would probably be the best.
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