When I lag behind because of my littleness my aunt turns round, on the edge of the footpath, and holds out her arms, and I run to her, and she stoops as I come and calls me by my name.
* * * * * * "Simon! Simon!" A woman is here.

I wrench myself from the dream which had come into the room and taken solidity before me.

I stand up; it is my cousin Marie.
She offers me her hands among the candles which flutter by the bed.

In their poor starlight her face appears haggard and wet.

My aunt loved her.