Page:Storm Over Paris.pdf/47

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"You're in a hurry, aren't you, Anna?" he said, his voice choked. In his eyes there was a desperate look of helplessness, the dumb gratitude of a wounded beast. Anna covered her face with her hands to ward off that pleading gaze, that whirlpool of pity that threatened to suck her into its deep, silent depths. Then she caught herself sinking, sinking into the voluptuous depths of his despair like a girl who finds her lover at the bottom of the sea.

"No, Soma, no, don't look at me so thankfully," she thought. "I can't bear your thanks. I throw myself on my knees before your suffering. Don't thank me, Soma. No. Demand, do you hear me? Demand. Anything, anything you ask!"

But instead of giving voice to her thoughts, she held back her tears and said: "I'm not in a hurry to go anywhere. My whole evening is yours."

Soma finished the food she had prepared. Anna cleaned the table and freshened the pillow on the bed.

"Maybe you'd like some more tea," she said. "I'll have some with you."

"Death will soon be drinking with me," Soma burst out unexpectedly, in a spasm of self-pity.

"You're joking, Soma," Anna tried to avert the thought. "You'll soon be able to go back to your work. And besides, we have reason to hope that our side will win. That alone should give you courage. Just imagine, two whole free days every week. To do with whatever you like. And higher wages."

"What does it matter to me," he answered dejectedly. "I'll not be here to enjoy it."

"What do you mean?"

"It's very simple. I've fallen out of the ranks."

"What ranks?"