For the time Anne forgot even her lover, was deaf to the struggle outside, was unmindful of the flight of the hours.

For her, Geneva might have lain at peace, the night been as other nights, the house below been heavy with the breathing of tired sleepers.

She looked neither to the right nor the left, until under her loving hands Madame Royaume revived, opened her eyes and smiled--the smile she had for one face only in the world.
By that time Anne had lost count of the time.

It might be hard on morning, it might be a little after midnight.

One thing only was clear, the lamp required oil, and to get it she must descend to the ground floor.