Then Mame begins again to mumble; once again she yields to emotion under the harsh flame of the lamp, and once again her eyes grow dim in her complicated Japanese mask that is crowned with cotton-wool, and something dimly shining flows from them.
The tears of the sensitive old soul plash on that lip so voluminous that it seems a sort of heart.

She leans towards me, she comes so near, so near, that I feel sure she is touching me.
I have only her in the world to love me really.

In spite of her humors and her lamentations I know well that she is always in the right.
I yawn, while she takes away the dirty plates and proceeds to hide them in a dark corner.

She fills the big bowl from the pitcher and then carries it along to the stove for the crockery.
Antonia has given me an appointment for eight o'clock, near the Kiosk.
It is ten past eight.

I go out.