Hitachi Hydraulic Excavator ZX300-7 Full Manuals_EN

Hitachi Hydraulic Excavator ZX300-7

Full Manuals_EN
To download the complete and correct content, please visit:

https://manualpost.com/download/hitachi-hydraulic-excavator-zx300-7-full-manual
s_en/

**Hitachi Hydraulic Excavator ZX300-7 Full Manuals_EN** Size: 268 MB Format:

PDF Language: English Brand: Hitachi Type of document: Technical Manuals,
Workshop Manual, Operator Catalog, Circuit Diagram Type of Machine: Hydraulic
Excavator ZX300-7 Model: Hitachi Hydraulic Excavator ZX300-7 Content: ZX
300-7 Workshop ManuaL ZX 300-7 WORKSHOP MANUAL 2.pdf ZX 300-7
WORKSHOP MANUAL 3.pdf ZX240-7 300-7 330-7 OPERATOR CATALOK.pdf
ZX300-7 350-7 ELEC_Circuit.PDF ZX300-7 6HK1 ENGINE PART CATALOK.pdf
ZX300-7 Technical Manual Operational Principle.pdf ZX300-7 Technical Manual
Troubleshooting.pdf ZX300LC-7 300LCN-7 HYD_Circuit.pdf ZX300LC-7
TROUBLESHOOTING MANUAL.pdf ZX300LC-7_EQUIPMENT
PARTCATALOG-1.pdf ZX300LC-7_PART CATALOG-1.pdf
Download all on: manualpost.com.

Visit ManualPost.com to get correct and complete item

 [Unrelated content]
Another random document on
Internet:
which she always carried about with her, which no one knew, which
no one had ever known! In the dark room, with the closed sun-
blinds, the secret stifled her and had to be told, because it stifled her
in her heart and throat.
"I must tell it you, Addie.... It was during those last days, those
terrible days in Paris. Eduard, my husband, was in Paris and ... and
he had been threatening me.... You remember, you must remember:
I told you as much as that, didn't I?... He had come to look for me in
Paris. He hated me ... and he hated, oh, how he hated Henri!...
Henri, my poor brother, my brother!... Addie, Addie, let me tell you
everything!... Whatever people may have thought, whatever people
may have said, none of it's true, it's all false! He was my brother, my
own brother; and I loved him as a brother, though perhaps too
much; and he loved me as a sister, though perhaps too much.... Oh,
people are so wicked, so utterly wicked! They thought, they said ...
As for me, I would never speak. Oh, Addie, your parents and you,
your kindest and dearest of parents, never asked me a question, but
took me to live with them in their house, which has become my
sanctuary, where I can lead my cloistered life! Oh, Addie, I shall be
grateful for ever and ever to your dear parents ... and to you! They
never asked me anything, they have been like father and mother to
me; I have been able to live under their roof, though my life has
been nothing but remorse and pain.... Oh, Addie, let me tell you
everything!... Henri was a clown in a circus—you know about that—
and I, I made money by painting. We lived ... we lived together; we
were both of us happy; then Eduard came.... Oh, he was like an evil
spirit! Oh, when I dream of him now, I dream of a devil! Addie,
Eduard came!... And it was he ... it was he...."
"I know, Emilie, I know."
The words burst from her in a scream:
"It was he ... he ... he ... who murdered Henri!"
"Hush, Emilie."
"Oh, I can't keep silent, I can't keep silent for ever; it chokes me, it
chokes me, here!"
She uttered loud, hysterical cries, twisting herself against the chair;
her eyes stared distractedly out of her face; her hair hung loose
about her cheeks; her features were pale and distorted.
"It was after an evening when he had been playing in the circus ...
and Eduard ... Eduard...."
"I know, I know.... Hush, Emilie!"
"He waited for him ... in the passage in front of the house where we
lived ... and ... and he called him names ... they quarrelled.... Then
... then he stabbed him ... with a knife!"
"Hush, Emilie, hush!"
But she screamed it out: her screeches rang through the room. She
wriggled like a madwoman against his knees; he stroked her
dishevelled hair, to quiet her.
"Oh, your parents, your dear parents, Addie: they never asked me
anything!... They came and fetched me: oh, Addie, that journey
home, with his coffin between us, oh, those formalities at the
frontiers!... Oh, Addie, your dear parents: they saved me: I was
mad, I was mad, I was mad at that time! Now it's all coming back to
me; I can't keep it to myself any longer!... You see, he waited for
him, they began quarrelling about me and ... suddenly they were
like two wild animals! Henri rushed at him ... and then Eduard
stabbed him with his knife! The villain, the villain! He has been
missing since then; I have never seen him again; only at night, at
night I see him with his knife! Oh, Addie, Addie, help me!"
He gripped her by the arms with all his might and sought to control
her; but she resisted. She was like a madwoman; in the sultry
summer heat she was overmastered by the day-long vision that
loomed up regularly with the first balmy warmth of spring. She was
like a madwoman; she saw everything before her eyes; she lived the
past over again.
"Nobody has ever known, Addie, except you, except you!"
"Hush, Emilie, hush!"
He tried to look into her eyes, but they avoided his. She twisted and
turned as though she were in the grasp of a ravisher; she dragged
herself along the floor, while his hand held her arms. Suddenly his
eyes met hers and he held and pierced them deeply with his grey-
blue glance. She fell back helplessly against a chair; her features,
now relaxed, hung slackly, like an old woman's; her lips drooped.
She lay huddled and moaning, with a monotonous moan of pain.
Then she began to shake her head, up and down, up and down,
grating the back of her head against the chair.
"Get up, Emilie."
She obeyed, let him help her up, hung like a rag in his hands. She
fell back on her bed, with her eyes closed; and he rang the bell. It
was Constance who entered.
"We will undress her now, Mamma; she's much quieter. I'll ring for
Aunt Adeline to help you."
He rang again and asked Truitje to go for Mrs. van Lowe. But, as
soon as Emilie felt the touch of Constance' fingers, she began to
moan anew and opened her eyes:
"Oh, Auntie, Auntie, you're a dear, you're a dear! You never, never
asked me!"
"Perhaps it will be better to leave her now, Mamma," whispered
Addie.
Constance left the room, promising to remain within call with
Adeline.
Emilie lay on the bed, her eyes staring straight before her, as though
she still beheld all the horror of the past; and she went on moaning
in fear and pain:
"Addie, Addie, it was Eduard ... it was Eduard who murdered
Henri.... Oh, nobody knows, nobody knows!... Uncle and Aunt never
asked me.... People at the Hague say that it was I who made Eduard
unhappy, that that is why he has gone away, disappeared.... Perhaps
I did, perhaps I did make him unhappy.... I don't know, I don't
know.... You see, I didn't know what I was doing when I married
Eduard. I thought ... I thought it would be all right, I thought I cared
for him ... Ssh, Addie, don't tell anybody, but I cared for Henri, for
my brother, only. I swear, it was all quite beautiful what he and I felt
for each other; there was never anything between us, never
anything to be ashamed of!... But my life, Addie, my poor life, oh,
my poor little life was quite wrecked, because I did not know,
because I felt so strangely, because I fought against the common
things of life, against my marriage, against my husband, and
because all that was stronger than what I tried to do, what I myself
did not really know, nor Henri, nor Henri either I...."
The heart-broken lamentation over her life moaned away in plaintive
words and it was as though, after uttering herself, she sank into a
dull vacancy, with her eyes wide open, staring through the room, as
if she still saw all the things of the past but as if they were now
vanishing after she had uttered herself. And it was the same every
year: each time spring came round, the same strange, mysterious
force compelled her to tell it, to tell it right out, to tell all the sad
secret of her piteous wreck and failure of a woman's life, she a very
small soul, crushed under too great a tragedy, under too great an
affliction, something too strange, which had crushed her and yet not
crushed her to death. She lived on, she had lived on for years, living
her life devoid of all interest and yet still young; bonds seemed still
to bind her body and soul to life; and there was nothing left for her
except the pity of those who surrounded her and a dull resignation,
which only once, in each year, as though roused by the warm
torrents of spring or summer, burst forth into a thunder of storm....
It gathered, it gathered, she felt it threatening days beforehand, as
though it were bursting within her brain; during those sleepless
nights she lay with her head clasped in her hands; and it gathered, it
gathered: a fit of nerves, a violent attack of nerves; and she called
for Addie, the only one who knew; and she told him, she told it him
again; and, after she had told it and had fallen asleep under his
eyes, she woke a little calmer. Then, after days, after long, slow
days, her quivering nerves became restful; she surrendered herself;
and that dull resignation wove itself round her again, the summer
beat hot and sultry upon her, the slow course of the monotonous
days dragged her on and on. Nobody talked of it all; and then, one
evening, in the garden, she found herself recovered, feeling strange
and resigned, limp her hands, limp her arms, with poor Aunt Adeline
beside her, quite cheered and receiving a short letter from Guy, while
the girls and Aunt Constance put Grannie to bed and then Klaasje,
that great big girl, who still always insisted on being taken to bed ...
and while Uncle Ernst wandered round the pond, talking to himself
... and while Paul had not shown himself for three days, locking
himself in his room, in the villa over there, lower down....
That was how she recovered, as if waking from a hideous dream;
that was how she came to herself, in the evening, sitting in the
garden with Aunt Adeline, reading and rereading Guy's letter, beside
her. And a little further away sat Mr. Brauws and Uncle Henri: Uncle
Henri who could not get used to Guy's absence ... and who fretted
over it sometimes, with the tears standing wet in his eyes.
 CHAPTER XXX
Addie returned to the Hague that evening; and seldom had he felt
so heavy and listless, as if he knew nothing for himself. No, he knew
nothing, nothing more for his poor self, as if he, as he grew older,
daily lost more and more of the knowledge that is sacredly imparted
for a man's own soul, like a far-lighting lamp casts its rays over the
paths of his own destiny that lie dimly in the future.... Though he
knew for others so often and so surely, for himself he knew nothing
nowadays, nothing. Once he had known himself to be a dual
personality; to-day he no longer knew which of the two he was. He
felt like a prematurely old and decrepit young man, prematurely old
and decrepit because life had become serious for him too early and
opened out to him too early, so that he had fathomed it through and
through: prematurely old and decrepit because his own life later had
not trembled in the pure balance of his own twin forces of soul. He
had felt fettered to the one; and it drew him down, while the other
had not the power to lift him up to the height of pure self-
realization....
He walked home from the station, late in the evening. He dragged
himself along, his step was heavy and slow; over the dark masses of
the Wood hung a sultry, pearl-grey summer night; the houses in the
Bezuidenhout faded away white in the evening silence. Light rain-
clouds dreamed in the sky: it would doubtless rain to-morrow; and
far behind them lurked the threatening summer storm. For the
present the evening sombreness drifted on as though in hushed
expectation. Everything was still: the trees, the houses, the clouds.
There was hardly anyone about; a last tram came rumbling out of
the distance, from Scheveningen; and its bell seemed to ring
through the space of the evening, very far behind him.
He walked on, dragged himself along past the houses. He was tired
out, as he was every time that he practised hypnotism; in addition to
this, it always broke his heart to leave Driebergen. How united he
was with everybody and everything there! The house was his
father's and his; the family was his mother's and his. As the child of
his two parents, he felt at home there, in that great sombre house.
But he no longer lived there, no longer worked there. In the crudely-
bright, small, motley-painted house towards which he was wending,
his wife awaited him; and he would find his children.
Healthy children, a healthy wife: he had all that. What he had longed
for, in his anxiety at what he saw in his mother's family, he now
possessed: a healthy wife and healthy children. How they both of
them loved the children; how united they were, where the children
were concerned! All their difference arose from a spiritual
misunderstanding, because at first they had not known.... Know?
Did he know now? Did he know that he ought never to have taken a
wife like Mathilde? Did he not know that it was his fault?
There was nothing else for him to do than to continue the sacrifice,
all his life long; but the sacrifice was very heavy: living and working
in contradiction to his impulses, in a sphere that was not his. It was
this that made him ill and prematurely old. He saw no future before
him. The sacrifice was killing something deep down in himself.
He felt a sudden rebellion: it was not a man's business to sacrifice
himself like that. What was done was done. Mathilde must
accommodate herself somehow. He would tell her that it wouldn't
do, that the Hague was killing him, that he must go back to the
house out there, to the village, to the district where he was of use
and able to work. She would have to go with him.
But he saw her, as a sacrificial victim, offered up for a faith which
she did not share, because of his mistake in life. No, no, he could
never do it, could never tell her that the Hague was killing him, that
she must accommodate herself and make the best of things. It was
for him, for him to make the best of things: if he wished to remain in
any sense just, he must continue to sacrifice himself, though it wore
him to death.
How sombre and joyless it all was! How grey it all was, far and wide
around him, like the very night that hung pearl-white close by and,
farther away, dug itself into abysses of threatening darkness!
As he drew nearer home, his feet lagged more heavily. And
suddenly, before turning down the street in which he lived, he
dropped on to a bench and remained sitting as though paralyzed,
with his head in his hand.
How hard and heavy it was for him, to have to go back like that to
his own house! Oh, to remain sitting, just sitting like that until he
had attained certain knowledge! He closed his eyes.
He felt himself conquered, overcome.... Suddenly, as in a dream,
voices struck upon his ear; and he seemed to recognize the voices.
He rose mechanically and, past the houses, along the silent
pavement, saw approaching the dark figures of two people walking
slowly, a man and a woman. Their voices sounded clearly, though he
could not catch the words; he recognized the leisurely forms. It was
Johan Erzeele and Mathilde.
They did not see him. They walked on very slowly and Addie
followed behind them. Johan seemed to be persistently pleading,
Mathilde seemed to be refusing something. Addie's heart beat
fearfully as he followed after them; and a jealousy suddenly flared
up amid his dull dejection. Was she not his wife, was she not his
wife? And why, lately, was she always looking for Johan and he for
her? Was it not always so: always these tennis-parties together,
always meeting at friends' houses where he, Addie, never went?...
Where were they coming from now? Where had they been? Was he
bringing her home? How intimate their conversation sounded, how
sad almost! Had they grown fond of each other, in a dangerous
increasing friendship?
He followed them unobserved, almost glad to have surprised them,
suspicious in his jealous grief. Did not he still love his wife,
notwithstanding their deep-seated differences?... He slackened his
pace and followed very slowly.... After his first access of jealousy, he
seemed rather to feel a certain curiosity to observe in silence, to
make a diagnosis. His nature got the upper hand of him, the nature
of one who is born to heal and who, before healing, diagnoses the
disease. Yes, jealousy still smouldered within him; but he felt even
more distinctly the craving for knowledge. Did he not still love
Mathilde?... Ah, but was she indispensable to his life?
That suddenly became clear to him: indispensable to his life she was
not.... His children, yes: they belonged to all of them, to all of them
yonder, in the old house, the old family-house. She, his wife, did not.
His children were indispensable to his life: he felt that clearly.
Mathilde, Mathilde was not. For Mathilde, as he now walked behind
her and Johan, he felt only the curiosity to analyze and classify the
nature of the disease, nothing but that. Even the jealousy died away
in him, the child of his jealous parents.... He continued to follow
them. He saw Erzeele put his arm through Mathilde's.
He now quickened his pace slightly. His heels rang on the pavement
through the night air, regularly, faster than before. The two in front
looked round. They gave a start. He caught them up:
"I seemed to recognize you ... in the distance," he said, calmly and
naturally, while they were unable to speak and Erzeele withdrew his
arm.
"I have come from the station."
"I didn't expect you till to-morrow," said Mathilde, faintly, in spite of
herself.
"I finished earlier. Emilie is much more peaceful.... How are the
children?"
"All right."
"Where have you been this evening?"
"I went and had tea at Johan's sister's.... Johan was seeing me
home."
"But now that Van der Welcke's here ... to see you home...." said
Erzeele.
"Not at all," replied Addie. "Come a little way farther."
They walked on, Mathilde between the two men. Addie talked
conventionally. They hardly answered. Meanwhile he observed them.
His curiosity roused him, gave him a sudden new interest, as though
he was treating a case of serious illness.
"I'll say good-bye here," said Erzeele, as they turned down the side-
street.
They both shook hands with him and walked home more silently,
suddenly dragging their feet.
Addie felt in his pocket for the key:
"It's late," he said, mechanically.
"Getting on for twelve," replied Mathilde, dully.
He saw that her eyes were red with weeping. He said nothing. They
went upstairs without speaking. On reaching the nursery, they both
crept in for a moment on tip-toe and looked into the little cots. The
nurse was sleeping in the next room, with the door open between.
They exchanged a smile, because the babies were sleeping so
prettily. Then they went to Mathilde's bedroom. Once they had
crossed the threshold, it seemed to him as if they were strangers.
"I'm tired," said Mathilde.
"So am I," said Addie.
He kissed her, left her and went to his own bedroom. Through the
closed door he could follow her movements, heard her undressing,
heard the rustle of her clothes. He sank into a chair and stared in
front of him:
"I know," he thought, with his eyes very wide. "She loves him and
he loves her. I ... I no longer love her.... She has never been
indispensable to my existence.... I made a mistake. I did not know
for myself...."
He did not sleep that night. Next morning early he said to Mathilde:
"Tilly, I want to talk to you."
"What about?"
"About ourselves."
She raised her eyebrows impatiently:
"What for?" she asked. "We have had that sort of talk so often. It
leads to nothing. It tires me."
"Yes, you're looking tired ... and ill. You're not happy."
"Oh, never mind my happiness!"
"But what else did we come here for, Tilly, except your happiness?"
"That's true," she said, without interest. "You did it for my sake. It
was nice of you."
"But it did no good."
"No, it did no good. And it would be better...."
"What?"
"For you to go back to Driebergen, Addie."
"I agree," he said, gently.
She started:
"What do you mean?"
"I was thinking the same thing."
"What?"
"That I ought to go back to Driebergen."
She looked at him in surprise:
"And I?" she asked.
"You remain here ... with the children."
"I don't understand."
"You stay in the Hague ... you and the children."
"And you?"
"I'll go down there."
"I don't understand," she repeated.
"I mean what I say, Tilly," he said. "It is better...."
"What?"
"That we should separate."
"Separate?"
"Perhaps. For a longer or shorter period."
She stared at him:
"Do you want a divorce?"
"I think so."
She continued to stare at him and choked down her tears:
"Addie, do you no longer love me?"
"No," he said, gently.
She looked deep in his eyes, affronted:
"What do you mean?"
"That I don't love you, any longer, enough to live with you. I beg
your pardon, Tilly, if I have spoilt your life, if I have shattered your
life. I have spoilt and shattered it. I beg your pardon ... if you can
forgive me."
"Only a little while ago ... you told me that you cared for me."
"I thought so at the time ... It seemed to mean so much to me."
"And now?"
"Now I don't".
She rebelled with injured pride:
"Then why did you ask me to marry you?"
"Yes, that was just it."
"Just what?"
"The mistake.... Tell me, do you still love me?"
"No," she said, proudly.
"So you see: it's better...."
"That we should be divorced."
"Don't you think so yourself?"
"And the children?" she asked.
"That's my punishment," he said, gently. "They will remain with
you."
"You entrust them to me?"
"I do."
"Addie!" she cried, with a sob.
"You still love me a little, Tilly...."
She only sobbed.
"But not so much as you did," he assured her. "You are in love with
Erzeele."
"Erzeele?"
"Yes."
"He is a friend."
"He may become more ... later," he forced himself to say, uncleansed
as yet of jealousy, because she was still his wife.
"Addie," she said, "I am to blame. If I could only have got
accustomed to things, like all of you, at Driebergen ... I should have
been happy."
"Yes, but it is not your fault that you couldn't."
"I don't want a divorce," she said.
"Why not?"
"For my sake ... and the children's."
"The children's?"
"For their sake especially. No, Addie, I don't want it. Unless...."
"What?"
"Unless you want it ... for your own sake, to be free, to marry
somebody else."
"No."
"Then I don't want it either. If you assure me...."
"I do assure you."
"Then I don't want it either."
"And Erzeele?"
"No," she said, shaking her head. "It's not as people say."
"What do they say?"
"That he is my lover. He's not that."
"I never supposed he was."
"I value his friendship ... but I could not be his wife."
"Why not?"
"Because I am your wife."
"Do you feel that?"
"Always."
"My poor child!" he said, in spite of himself.
"Why do you pity me?" she asked, proudly.
"Because I have done you a wrong. Because I am unable to atone."
"You have done me no wrong. We loved each other very much ...
then. At that time ... I thought I understood you. Now I no longer
understand you. You breathe too rarefied an air for me."
"No, it isn't that. But...."
"What?"
"Nothing. So, Tilly, you don't want us to be divorced."
She looked at him anxiously:
"No," she entreated.
"Well, dear, then we won't be," he said, gently. "Only ... our present
life ... is no life at all. So it will be better if...."
"If what?"
"If I don't stay with you, if I go away."
"And I?"
"You remain here, in this house, where everything is as you like it.
You stay ... with our children."
"Our ... our children," she stammered.
"Perhaps later...."
"What?"
"Because of our children, we shall come together again ... when all
misunderstanding has disappeared."
"I don't follow you."
"Perhaps you will later. But perhaps also ... you will become so fond
of Erzeele ... that...."
She shook her head, stared before her.
"We never know," said Addie, gently.
"No," she said, pensively. "I know nothing ... nothing now. I used to
think ... that you knew everything."
"I do sometimes know things ... for others. I have not known for
myself."
"And now?"
"Now I know better ... for you."
"For me?"
"Yes, now I know, Tilly ... that it is better for you ... that I should
leave you...."
"For good?"
"Perhaps. Perhaps for a long time ... only...."
"And the children? Won't you be longing for them?"
It was more than he could bear; and he said nothing, only nodded
yes. Then he said:
"But they will be all right ... with you, Tilly."
It was more than she could bear either. She fell into a chair, sobbing.
"Don't be unhappy, Tilly," he said. "We must make a change. If we
remain as we are, we shall end by hating each other.... Don't be
unhappy about parting ... when you reflect ... that it is really out of
the question for us to remain together."
"You are right," she said, coldly. "So...."
"You will stay here. You will live here. That is, if you like."
"And you?"
"I? I shall go home."
She felt her jealousy of all of them, out there:
"Yes," he said, gently.
"If you don't love me," she burst out, "they will not need to console
you long."
"I shall feel regret ... because I have spoilt your life ... and because I
sha'n't see the children any more."
"Spoilt my life?" she said, proudly. "You have not done that."
He did not answer.
"The children?" she continued. "Why should you not see them ...
when you want to?"
"Would you allow that?"
"Allow it? They are your children. I have nothing to say in the
matter. In fact...."
"In fact?"
"I should not think it right ... if you did not see them often."
"Then I shall come."
"Of course.... But to go on living here ... would be too expensive."
"No, not at all. I ... I shall want nothing ... out there. Whatever I
make is yours."
"I can't accept it."
"Yes, you can ... for the children. It's better, Tilly, that everything
should remain as it is."
"Very well," she consented. "Only, Addie ... it's not a solution."
"There can be no solution ... until you know that you care enough
for Johan Erzeele...."
"No, no, I don't!"
"That you care enough for Johan Erzeele to...."
"I don't know, I don't know ... and I refuse to discuss it."
"I understand that, Tilly. Then ... there can be no solution yet, can
there? We know nothing about a solution. I am simply giving you
back your life, as far as I can, and you are doing the same to me.
Later we will see what happens. It will all come of itself. What do we
know? We know nothing ... for ourselves. Knowledge will all come of
itself. Do you understand?"
"No."
"You will, later.... You will live here, with the children; you will see
me hardly at all. I shall not see the children for a time. It will be as
though I were on a journey. They are so small: oh, I hope that they
won't miss me and that, when they do see me again, they will know
me!... So you will be alone ... with the children ... It may be that you
will want me back then, that the former love will return.... In my
case too, perhaps.... We shall see. It will ... it will all come of itself
and we ... we know nothing.... Perhaps, in years to come, we shall
be living quietly together again ... with the children. Or else...."
"What?"
"Or else you will be far away from me ... and will have found your
happiness with another."
She put her hands before her eyes:
"I don't see it.... I don't know...."
"Now you are being honest. No, you don't know if you will come to
care so much as that for Johan.... And I ... I will be honest too! I
don't know if I shall ever care for you again.... But we must wait,
Tilly; and the best thing therefore is to leave each other and ... and
not to talk to each other again until it has come of itself and until we
know.... You will not be alone in the world; for, if ever I can do
anything for you, I will come to you. I shall never forget you."
"Yes, perhaps that will be best," she said, in a dead voice. "I shall try
to look at it like that ... and to live alone ... with the children. I shall
not see Johan again."
"No, no, on the contrary: you must see him."
"Why?"
"So as to know. You will never be weak."
"No, I shall never be that."
"You know how he feels towards you."
"How do you know?"
"I know you do.... You know what he feels for you. But you do not
know what you feel for him."
"Addie! Oh, Addie!"
"Don't deny it. Be honest. These are the last words, perhaps, that
we shall exchange for quite a long time. I am going away now."
"Now?"
"Yes.... Write to me when there's any occasion."
"Very well."
"Good-bye, Tilly."
She was silent, sat staring before her, with her hands clasped over
her knees. No, she did not understand him, but she could not act
otherwise than he wished.
He was gone; and suddenly she felt very lonely. She heard him
upstairs packing, rummaging in his cupboards.
And she began to reflect, sadly:
"He acts differently and speaks differently from anybody else.
Divorced? Oh, no, I don't want that ... if he doesn't want it for
himself!... I ... at least ... not yet.... No, no, nor ever.... Oh, I don't
know, I don't know!... I am fond of Johan.... If I were free now, if I
were a girl still.... But Addie, the children.... I don't know, I don't
know.... That was why Addie thought it would be well ... for us not
to see each other ... for a time. How he will miss the children!... Oh
dear, is he really, really going? Yes, I hear him upstairs ... packing....