Sleep....
Torpor gained complete possession of me. The darkness gathered, and when the last streak of twilight came through the window fluttering on my eyelids, a little hope returned.
After all, twenty-two days was not so terrible. Many people had had to wait longer. Hadn't I had to wait sixteen days once? Letters get lost on the way.
I visualized a scene—a hospital ward, a row of beds, white coverings, nurses. How was it I had not thought of it before? Wounded!... A slight wound which kept him from writing.... I welcomed the certainty. It was so comforting that I tried to hold on to it by jumping right up and shaking off anxiety and being happy. Anxiety is an insult to love.
I groped for the lamp, turned on the light, and laid some reading matter on the table. The disorder was dismal but—to-morrow was another day. I sat down to read.
The lines leapt at my eyes. You'd have thought them an army of ants running over the page, running, yet always remaining at the same place. Should I try to work? Should I try to make up a package for him? That would be two packages this week, but two are not a whole lot.
My heart gave a great leap. The door-bell rang. Who could it be at this hour? My very life went round in a whirlwind, I flew to the door.
Some one in black shrinking in the dark doorway in the humble attitude of a sister of charity requesting alms for the poor. My aunt Finot!
I murmured a few little hypocrisies and put up my hair. I was fuming inwardly, although actually a little relieved at the prospect of a visit, which even if tedious would mean a human presence, a tangible certainty. I was so upset I came near saying "Tante Finot" and giving away the nickname by which she had been called in the family for twenty years.
"Come in, aunt...."