"Can you make out what book it is
he is talking about?" and she comes to a stop.
I hug myself with delight at her confusion; the irresolute perplexity in
her eyes positively fascinates me. Her mind cannot grasp my short,
passionate address. She has no book with her; not a single page of a book,
and yet she fumbles in her pockets, looks down repeatedly at her hands,
turns her head and scrutinizes the streets behind her, exerts her
sensitive little brain to the utmost in trying to discover what book it is
I am talking about. Her face changes colour, has now one, now another
expression, and she is breathing quite audibly--even the very buttons on
her gown seem to stare at me, like a row of frightened eyes.
"Don't bother about him!" says her companion, taking her by the arm. "He
is drunk; can't you see that the man is drunk?"
Strange as I was at this instant to myself, so absolutely a prey to
peculiar invisible inner influences, nothing occurred around me without my
observing it. A large, brown dog sprang right across the street towards
the shrubbery, and then down towards the Tivoli; he had on a very narrow
collar of German silver. Farther up the street a window opened on the
second floor, and a servant-maid leant out of it, with her sleeves turned
up, and began to clean the panes on the outside. Nothing escaped my
notice; I was clear-headed and ready-witted. Everything rushed in upon me
with a gleaming distinctness, as if I were suddenly surrounded by a strong
light.
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