For the moment I'd forgotten where I was. Now I heard the city noises; the footsteps grinding on pavements; the whistle and grinding of trains. And the lights from the city reddened the mists that rose from the Dnieper.
The carts in front began to move on.
"Where are we going?"—"What are the orders?"—"Is there a relief station here?" every one cried at once.
"Good-bye. A good journey," I cried.
"Thank you. Good-bye."
The men stepped out into the road again. I watched cart after cart pass me. The women looked straight out between the horses' ears, and showed no curiosity or wonderment at being in a big city for the first time in their lives. Strange sights and faces had no significance for them any more.
I ducked under a horse's nose and went indoors again.
There is something shameful in our security. We have shelter and bread. We can only feel life indirectly, after all. We are always muffled up by things. And America. A pathologic fear clutches me, for how will it all end?
My love to you every minute.