Jeanne is equally enchanted. When she goes outside without a hat her hair looks like a burning torch against the snow. She does not speak, but hums to herself, and walks more lightly and softly than ever, as though she feared to waken some sleeper.
... I remember how Malthe and I were once talking about Greece, and he gave me an account of a snowstorm in Delphi. I cannot recall a word of his description; I was not listening, but just thinking how the snow would melt when it fell upon his head.
He has fulfilled my request not to write. I have not had a line since his only letter came. And yet....
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I have burnt his letter.
I have burnt his letter. A few ashes are all that remain to me.
It hurts me to look at the ashes. I cannot make up my mind to throw them away.
I have got rid of the ashes. It was harder than I thought. Even now I am restless.
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I am glad the letter is destroyed. Now I am free at last. My temptations were very natural.