The little grating in the door, the sense of constant inspection, worried her. The longing to talk to someone! But in the end she had gone to her room without giving in to the craving. There were seven tales in all—short stories—a method of expression quite strange to her, after the immense canvases of Dickens and Hugo. He came as an agreeable diversion from an insoluble perplexity. He said that for him beauty justified life, that he could not imagine a good action that was not a beautiful one nor any beautiful thing that could be altogether bad. “It’s very late. ” He was a little uneasy.
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