Hours came and passed and left their marks on the faces of the people in the old house. Thomas was already in bed. On the vaulted staircase Anne talked for a long time with Dr. Gárdos, the son of the old proto-medicus.
The doctor’s voice was strangled; his words scarcely reached Anne and yet they annihilated everything around her. Had she not yet lost enough? Was there no mercy for her?
Dr. Gárdos looked at her full of pity.
“Miracles might happen....”
The corners of Anne’s eyes drew up slowly and horror was in her expression. She shivered and then went back through the corridor with strained, stiff lips. When Thomas as in a dream reached for her hand, she bent over him with her wan, crushed smile.
Dawn was slow to come and it was a long time before evening fell again. Nothing altered in the house, only the day opened and closed its eyes.
Thomas lay motionless in his bed. Anne watched his every breath anxiously, thought of the passing hours and of the day that drew threateningly nearer, on which the house was to be surrendered.
She asked for delay. It was refused. She had to accept the advice of young Doctor Gárdos.
The empty little lodgings in the house opposite ... there was no choice, they must move there. They would have to rough it, there would be room enough for a few days. For the doctor had told her, quite calmly, that it was only a matter of a few days.
“So there are still miracles,” thought Anne. “Yes, it is only for a short time and then ... everything will come right again.” She felt relieved and thus the last day in the old house passed away.