I should like to remain as I am.
Something holds me to the surroundings of my infancy and childhood, and I should like them to be eternal.

No doubt I hope for much from life.
I hope, I have hopes, as every one has.

I do not even know all that I hope for, but I should not like too great changes.

In my heart I should not like anything which changed the position of the stove, of the tap, of the chestnut wardrobe, nor the form of my evening rest, which faithfully returns.
* * * * * * The fire alight, my aunt warms up the stew, stirring it with the wooden spoon.

Sometimes there spurts from the stove a mournful flame, which seems to illumine her with tatters of light.
I get up to look at the stew.