CHAPTER XXXIII

On that very day Dimny’s sister and mother were talking of her in Louvain. There was no weird coincidence in that, for they were almost always talking of her. They wondered where she was and how she was, and if she had ever received their letter, and whether they ought to have written it, and whether they ought not to write another and tell her not to worry about them since they were at peace. And they were at peace—of a sort, for they had grown used to their fate, resigned to their condition, and that is about all…