The tears which fill her--for one always weeps in full, drop on to her knees.

And through her sobs there fall from her wet lips words almost shapeless, but desperate and fierce, as a burst of forced laughter.
"It's all over!" she cries.
* * * * * * I have put my arm round her waist, and I am shaken by the sorrow which agitates her chest and throat, and sometimes shakes her rudely, the sorrow which does not belong to me, which belongs to no one, and is like a divinity.
She becomes composed.

I take her hand.

In a weak voice she calls some memories up--this and that--and "one morning----" She applies herself to it and counts them.

I speak, too, gently.