Unifs, dull gray as if woven of damp fog would appear for a second at my side and then soundlessly redissolve. I was unable to turn my eyes away from the clock.⁠ ⁠… I seemed myself to have become that sharp, quivering hand which marked the seconds. Ten, eight minutes⁠ ⁠… three⁠ ⁠… two minutes to twelve.⁠ ⁠… Of course! I was late! Oh, how I hated her, yet I had to wait to prove that I.⁠ ⁠…

A red line in the milky whiteness of the fog⁠—like blood, like a wound made by a sharp knife⁠—her lips.

“I made you wait, I think? And now you are late for your work anyway?”

“How⁠ ⁠… ? Well, yes, it is too late now.”

I glanced at her lips in silence. All women are lips, lips only. Some are rosy lips, tense and round, a ring, a tender fence separating one from the world. But these! A second ago they were not here, and suddenly⁠ ⁠… the slash of a knife! I seemed to see even the dripping sweet blood.⁠ ⁠…