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“Oh, for that which cannot be told, because words are so few, always the same combinations of a few letters and sounds; oh, for that which cannot be thought of in the narrow limits of comprehension; that which at best can only be groped for with the antennæ of the soul; essence of the essences of the ultimate elements of our being!...”
She wrote no more, she knew no more: why write that she had no words and yet seek them?
She was waiting for him and she now looked out of the open window to see if he was coming. She remained there for a long time; then she felt that he would come immediately and so he did: she saw him approaching along the Scheveningen Road; he pushed open the iron gate of the villa and smiled to her as he raised his hat.
“Wait!” she cried. “Stay where you are!”
She ran down the steps, into the garden, where he stood. She came towards him, beaming with happiness and so lovely, so delicately frail; her blonde head so seemly in the fresh green of May; her figure like a young girl’s in the palest grey gown, with black velvet ribbon and here and there a touch of silver lace.
“I am so glad that you have come! You have not been to see me for so long!” she said, giving him her hand.
He did not answer at once; he merely smiled.
“Let us sit in the garden, behind: the weather is so lovely.”
“Let us,” he said.