"Forgive me, Auntie. I oughtn't to break down like this."
"My darling ... tell me all about it...."
"No, Auntie, it's nothing, really. I feel so ashamed, but, as you know, I always let myself go with you ... because I feel that you do love me ... a little ... and that you are not angry with me ... and that you forgive me...."
"I have nothing to forgive, Marianne...."
"Yes, you have, yes, you have, Auntie.... Oh, forgive me, forgive me! Tell me you forgive me!..."
"How do you spend your time here, dear?"
"Quietly, Auntie, but I'm quite satisfied. I try to be of some little use ... to Mamma ... and others. I have some poor people whom I look after. But I can't do much, I haven't much.... In the old days, you know, Mamma used to do a lot of good ... in between all her rush and worry; and I try to do a little now. But it is hard work ... and rather thankless work.... However, that's all that's left: to live a little for others ... and do a little for others. But sometimes ... sometimes I find it too much for me...."
"Poor Marianne!"
"Yes, sometimes it's too much for me. I am so young still ... and I feel as if I had done with everything, for good and all!..."
"No, dear, no.... If you only knew! You're a child still, Marianne.... And life, real life, will come later...."