Then it came: “ Tous les dé, monsieur ,” she said. “ Tous les dé, vous savez. ”

“ Je le sais, madame ,” Hans Castorp answered gently, “ et je le regrette beaucoup. ”

The lax pouches of skin under her jet-black eyes were larger and heavier than he had ever seen. She exhaled a faint odour as of fading flowers. A mild and pensive feeling stole about his heart.

“ Merci ,” she said, with a loose, clacking pronunciation, oddly consonant with her broken appearance. Her large mouth drooped tragically at one corner. She drew her hand back beneath her mantle, inclined her head, and turned away.