I recovered my balance by an effort of will-power.
I sat down at the table and took some papers out of my bag that I had to look over and arrange.
Something spurred me on.

I wanted to earn a little money.

I could then send some to my old aunt who had brought me up.

She always waited for me in the low-ceilinged room, where her sewing-machine, afternoons, whirred, monotonous and tiresome as a clock, and where, evenings, there was a lamp beside her which somehow seemed to look like herself.
Notes--the notes from which I was to draw up the report that would show my ability and definitely decide whether I would get a position in Monsieur Berton's bank--Monsieur Berton, who could do everything for me, who had but to say a word, the god of my material life.
I started to light the lamp.

I scratched a match.