Oh, those wretched nerves of mine!
Clara's companion wore a stiff mackintosh which rustled at her every
motion; and that rustle, or rather swish of the india-rubber, set my
very teeth on edge. Besides, we had only a few minutes left. I stepped
aside to make place for Pani Sniatynska, who came rushing up.
"Hilst, Frankfurt," Clara called out after me; "at home they will
forward my letters wherever I go!"
Presently I found myself on the platform under the window of her
carriage, among all those who had come to see her off. Their farewells
and good-bys mingled with the labored breathing of the locomotive and
the shouts of the railway men. The window of the carriage was lowered,
and I saw the friendly, honest face once more.
"Where are you going to spend the summer?" she asked.
"I don't know, I will write to you," I replied.
The panting of the locomotive grew quick, then came the last shrill
whistle, and the train began to move. We gave Clara a loud cheer, she
waved her hands to us, and then disappeared in the distance and the
dusk.
"You will feel very lonely," said suddenly close to me Pani
Sniatynska's voice.
"Yes, very," I said, and lifting my hat to her, I went home. And truly
I had the feeling as if somebody had left, who in case of need would
have given me a helping hand. I felt very despondent. Possibly the
gloomy evening, the mist and drizzling rain, in the midst of which the
street lamps looked like miniature rainbow arches, had something to
do with it.
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