"No.... No.... Not for months, perhaps not ... for years, for years.... But I did see him for many, many years.... You never saw him?"
"No."
"But ... you used to hear him?..."
"Yes, I ... I used to hear him.... My hearing was very good and always keen.... It was hallucinations.... I often heard his voice.... Don't let us talk about it.... We are both so old, so old, Ottilie.... He must have forgiven us by now. Else we should never have grown so old. Our life has passed peacefully for years: long, long, old years; nothing has ever disturbed us: he must have forgiven us.... Now we are both standing on the brink of our graves."
"Yes, it will soon come. I feel it."
But Takma brought his geniality into play:
"You, Ottilie? You'll live to be a hundred!"
His voice made an effort at bluff braggadocio and then broke into a shrill high note.
"I shall never see a hundred," said the old woman. "No. I shall die this winter."
"This winter?"