It seemed as though she would never again succeed in anything that would bring contentment.

Never had she felt so weak, so ill-tempered, so devoid of self-reliance.

Yet she could not, as usual, seek consolation with her saint.

There was so much here below to divert her attention.
The roseate glow on the linden had become a crimson glare, the flickering light on the opposite walls a dazzling illumination.

The wind, now blowing from the west, bore from St.Klarengasse burning objects which scattered sparks around them--bundles of hay caught by the flames--from the convent barn to the Marienthurm opposite, and into the street.