The girl shrugged her shoulders. As though she were dumb, she pointed to the piece of paper.
She was full of foreboding and of an inner warning, full of pain over the letter and the flight of her father, and full of horror of the butcher’s dog. She was undecided, looked at the paper, and stammered: “I don’t know.... I ought to wait for Michael.... Who is it.... He should have given his name.”
The girl shrugged her shoulders.
It seemed to Ruth that it would be wrong to disregard this cry for help. The bloodshot eyes of the dog were fixed upon her. Never had she seen an animal that seemed so naked. She put her hand over her forehead and tried to gather her troubled thoughts. She went back into the room and looked about. It seemed very lonely and bare. She slipped into her little coat and put on her hat. A faint smile gleamed for a moment on her face, as though she were glad to have come to a decision. She ran her eyes over the writing once more. “Plese for gods sake do come.” One’s duty seemed quite clear.
For a little she held her father’s letter uncertainly in her hand. Then she folded it again, and laid it on the table beside her slightly disordered books and writing utensils. She closed the books that were open, and made a little pile of them. The dog had noiselessly followed her into the room. It followed her as she left. On the door there hung by a string a little slate and a slate pencil. Ruth wrote: “I’ll be back soon. Have gone to Prenzlauer Alley. Wait for me. I must talk to you about something important.” She locked the door and hid the key under the door-mat of straw.
The strange girl preserved her sleepy indifference.
On the stairs Ruth bethought herself, and knocked at Karen’s door. If Christian were there, she could say a few words to him; but no one opened. She thought that Karen was asleep, and did not ring. As she descended the stairs behind the girl and the naked dog the new responsibilities and problems of her life came into her mind. But in Ruth’s young and intrepid heart, confusions grew clear and difficult things lost their terror.
In the lower hall she hesitated for a last time. She wanted to stop at Gisevius’s to see if Christian were there. But two old women were reviling each other loudly and filthily in the yard, and she went on.
It was raining. It was Sunday afternoon, a time of ghastly dreariness in Stolpische Street. There was quiet under the grey November sky, save for a hum from the public houses. The pale street-lamps flickered in the twilight.