How can I write what follows?
Her weakness increased; she no longer even left her room. Of her own accord she asked for the final sacrament. As she received it, I saw her face, so pale and white, grow bright, like a window behind which some light is shining. It was a transfiguration, in which I had the feeling that God was in her, stronger than she, so frail, whom He was going to take away.
The days were growing longer, crowding night between slow twilights and hastening dawns. The morning of the twentieth of May, a little before five o’clock, she called to me. Her room, where I was watching, faced the east, and through the loosely closed shutters a ray of light entered.
“Isn’t it daylight yet?” she asked me.
She was oppressed. I took her hand, which was damp, in mine. There was no abatement of the fever; yet I was not immediately alarmed.
“Yes, dear, don’t you see the sun?”
“No,” she said.
Her “no” startled me. I looked at her: her eyes were wide open, searching: she could no longer see. I pushed back the shutters, and through the open window a flood of light fell upon the bed, toward which I ran again at once.
“And now?”
“Now?” she repeated, making an effort, as if to fix her attention.