'It does not answer me,' she replied, still in the same voice that seemed to come from a distance.
'But what is it doing?'
'It looks at me ... looks at me steadily ... the eyes are so sad, so sad. It looks pityingly at me, just as if I were dead. Am I dead, then?'
'Now it will go away without telling you anything!' Formosa shouted out. 'Ask him what numbers come out to-morrow.'
She gave an agonized moan.
'I think it is weeping now, as if I were dead; it looks so to me. Tears fall down its cheeks.'
'Tears, sixty-five,' Formosa said to himself, as if he feared someone would hear him.
'It raises its hand to greet me....'
'Look how many fingers it lifts—look well; make no mistake.'
'Three fingers. It bows to me; it wants to go away....'