I can't tell you. I only know I am glad—I'm glad.
[OLGA here seems to have suddenly become composed, almost happy, as if something had been settled, though not as she had wished, still it is a relief.
KARL, takes her hand
Olga, do you mean you will never—
OLGA, smiling
I mean you will never know what was in that letter—it is as if it had never been written—it has ceased to exist, and we are past the day of miracles.
KARL, impatiently
Miracles?
OLGA
No, no! Only the devil himself would re-create that letter from its burnt ashes. Good-bye, Karl. I'm going now—I shan't see you again.