Not daring to speak again, I sit down in my usual corner.

Over the bed I can make out a pointed shape, like a mounted picture, silhouetted against the curtains, which slightly blacken the window.  It is as though the quilt were lifted from underneath by a stick, for my Aunt Josephine is leanness itself.

Gradually she raises her voice and begins to lament.  “You’ve no feelings, no—­you’re heartless,—­that dreadful word you said to me,—­you said, ‘You and your jawing!’ Ah! people don’t know what I have to put up with—­ill-natured—­cart-horse!”

In silence I hear the tear-streaming words that fall and founder in the dark room from that obscure blot on the pillow which is her face.

I stand up.  I sit down again.  I risk saying, “Come now, come; that’s all done with.”

She cries:  “Done with?  Ah! it will never be done with!”

With the sheet that night is begriming she muzzles herself, and hides her face.  She shakes her head to left and to right, violently, so as to wipe her eyes and signify dissent at the same time.

“Never!  A word like that you said to me breaks the heart forever.  But I must get up and get you something to eat.  You must eat.  I brought you up when you were a little one,”—­her voice capsizes—­“I’ve given up all for you, and you treat me as if I were an adventuress.”

I hear the sound of her skinny feet as she plants them successively on the floor, like two boxes.  She is seeking her things, scattered over the bed or slipped to the floor; she is swallowing sobs.  Now she is upright, shapeless in the shadow, but from time to time I see her remarkable leanness outlined.  She slips on a camisole and a jacket,—­a spectral vision of garments which unfold themselves about her handle-like arms, and above the hollow framework of her shoulders.

She talks to herself while she dresses, and gradually all my life-history, all my past comes forth from what the poor woman says,—­my only near relative on earth; as it were my mother and my servant.

She strikes a match.  The lamp emerges from the dark and zigzags about the room like a portable fairy.  My aunt is enclosed in a strong light.  Her eyes are level with her face; she has heavy and spongy eyelids and a big mouth which stirs with ruminated sorrow.  Fresh tears increase the dimensions of her eyes, make them sparkle and varnish the points of her cheeks.  She comes and goes with undiminished spleen.  Her wrinkles form heavy moldings on her face, and the skin of chin and neck is so folded that it looks intestinal, while the crude light tinges it all with something like blood.

Now that the lamp is alight some items become visible of the dismal super-chaos in which we are walled up,—­the piece of bed-ticking fastened with two nails across the bottom of the window, because of draughts; the marble-topped chest of drawers, with its woolen cover; and the door-lock, stopped with a protruding plug of paper.