After each day's disappointment, she closed her eyes saying, 'It will come to-morrow.' During the hours she spent at home the only event that interested her was the passing of the postman.
She watched constantly from the window at the times when letters were delivered, and if, a rare chance, the man in uniform stopped at the door below, she sprang to the top of the stairs and hung there breathless, to see if someone would come up.

No, the letter was never for her.

On coming home from work she always threw open her door eagerly, for perhaps she would see the white envelope lying on the floor again.

The defeat of hope always made the whole room seem barren and cold.

Sunday was of all days in the week the longest and gloomiest; on that day there was no postman.
But at length came the evening when, looking down by mere dull habit as she opened her room door, behold the white envelope lay there.