"Anxiety, anxiety—from that trouble of mine which you know well."
She clasped him in her arms. He felt that she was trembling in doubt.
"Are you mine—are you still mine?" she asked, in a stifled voice, her lips pressed to his shoulder.
"Yes—always yours."
This woman always suffered a horrible fear every time she saw him depart from her, every time she saw him return. When he went, was it not toward the unknown betrothed? When he returned, was it not to bid her a last farewell?
She clasped him in her arms with the fondness of a lover, a sister, a mother—with all human love.
"What can I do for you? Tell me!"
A continual need tormented her to offer, to serve, to obey a command that urged her toward peril, toward a struggle to seize some good that she might bring to him.
"What can I give you?"
He smiled wearily, overcome by sudden languor.