...
Through it all, behind the wall of pain, my thoughts knocked and
thudded, urging me to do something. It was not until the Friday or the
Saturday that I could think consecutively. My first thought was driven
in on me by the old curmudgeon of a doctor, as his deliberate opinion
that it was simply insanity to stay on in those damp rooms when I
suffered from my complaint, that I was only asking for what I got, and
that he, on his part, had no sympathy for me. I told him that I entirely
agreed with him, that I had determined several weeks ago to leave these
rooms, and that I thought that I had found some others in a different,
more populated part of the town. He grunted his approval, and,
forbidding me to go out for at least a week, left me. At least a
week!... No, I must be out long before that. Now that the pain had left
me, weak though I was, I was wildly impatient to return to the
Markovitches. Through all these last days' torments I had been conscious
of Semyonov, seen his hair and his mouth and his beard and his square
solidity and his tired, exhausted eyes, and strangely, at the end of it
all, felt the touch of his lips on mine.
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