My forehead strikes the lamp, which is hooked on the wall; it is out, oozing oil, and it stinks.

One never sees that lamp, and always bangs it.
And though I had hurried so--I don't know why--to get home, at this moment of arrival I slow down.

Every evening I have the same small and dull disillusion.
I go into the room which serves us as kitchen and dining-room, where my aunt is lying.

This room is buried in almost complete darkness.
"Good evening, Mame." A sigh, and then a sob arise from the bed crammed against the pale celestial squares of the window.
Then I remember that there was a scene between my old aunt and me after our early morning coffee.

Thus it is two or three times a week.