it. O. Im grateful for it. It is as lovely as a sunny day in a  summer. But I suspect t it cant last. to not gives content, but content is no food for me. It lulls teppeno sleep and satiates  it is not a o die for.quot;

    quot;So its necessary to be dead, Steppen;

    quot;I tent and I can bear it for a long  sometimes o look about me and long for t to keep t to suffer once again, only more beautifully and less meanly t make me ready and o die.quot;

    enderly in my eyes  dark look t could so suddenly come into oget it  to hear her, she said:

    quot;I  to tell you sometoday, somet I  too; but per to yourself. I am going to tell you no is t I kno you and me and our fate. You, ist and a track of  and eternal, never content rivial and petty. But t you back to yourself, ter  aken you, till you o your neck in t you once kneiful and sacred, all tiny,  its o pieces. Your faito breation is a  true,  your fate?quot;

    I nodded again and again.

    quot;You ure of life  tever, and t life is no poem of s to play and so on, but a comfortable room ent ing and drinking, coffee and knitting, cards and  in iful, and t poets or for ts—is a fool and a Don Quixote. Good. And it  ted girl. I  to live up to a andard, to expect muc t part. I could ionary, ter of a genius, tyr. And life  to be a courtesan of fairly good taste, and even t  is ime I put t I, must in t, and if life scorned my beautiful dreams, so I argued, it  upid and  did not  all. And as I tle inquisitive