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 struggling not to give in. With untiring eagerness it invents new explanations, new excuses. Don't worry, she will come. She has been delayed, she has forgotten the exact time, she has been detained on her way.

My heart struggles in vain. While the clock ticks on, my hope is bleeding to death, and doubt and mockery are triumphant. I curse Marie and call her a wicked false girl. The most hideous suspicion awakens in my heart, and my revengeful thoughts invent the crudest tortures.

At last I find myself on the edge of the bed, staring in dull hopelessness through the open door into the dining-room, where the table is arranged with delicate dishes, wines, and many lights.

I rouse myself, move to the window and open it. A soft spring rain is falling through the warm and misty air. I rest my forehead against the wet window-frame. The cruel pain has gone; I am only tired, so tired, and my heart seems withered. The soft moist air brings relief. The tired withered feeling changes again into a gentle sadness, a patient longing. If you came in this moment, Marie, surely I would not harm you.

I would lay my cheek against yours, and in the mild spring night, which softens everything that is hard and frozen, I would confess to you my heart's wonderful secret even now whispering in my soul. ... I turn round and watch, with a smile, the candles still burning on the table. Slowly I blow them out, one after the other. For a long time I