Still laughing, she pulled out a crumpled sheet of newspaper and straightened it. "No, I never!" she exclaimed. "You must read that." I looked at the paper and saw that it was French. "How can I read it? I don't know French." "Oh well, I forgot; I will read it out to you." "But I can't understand it." "Never mind; I am going to translate it." After that, she placed herself close to my bed and read out a story which made me furious. "Stop, if you please," I said; "I will hear no more of it." She laughed aloud. "You are only acting now; the truth is that you are anxious to hear the end." "No; I will hear no more," I said decidedly; and because she did not stop I got out of bed and ran, barefooted as I was, into the bathroom close by. I stayed there for rather a long while, and when I came back she was in bed and pretended to be asleep. I knew, however, that it was impossible for us to live together any longer. We did not speak to each other next morning. As soon as I had dressed, I went out and took a room for myself in quite a different part of London. I lived now close to Westminster Abbey. I had heard much about it already, but had not yet seen it, and determined to visit that place at the first possible moment. With my heart beating fast, I stood a few days later in front of its grey, sacred walls, and a little later I slipped in and mixed with the swarm of visitors. I did not, however, walk about as they did, but pressed myself hard into the first corner. Never in all my life had I felt what I felt then. I was like one spellbound, as if I was in immediate personal touch with all those who had been there a long, long time ago, and who were nothing but dust now. I roused myself at last and moved on. But I walked about like a sleep-walker, conceiving only the infinite greatness of all things, hardly realizing the reality of what I saw. After some wandering to and fro I caught sight suddenly of a low, little wooden door, and thought of opening it. I looked round carefully because I did not know whether it was permitted (it is permitted), pushed it open quickly and went out. Yes, really and truly out! Then, lo and behold! behind that door there was no chapel filled with coffins or monuments of kings and queens, but a garden in the shape of a square, which, it is true, had no flowers, but a beautiful, well-kept lawn, and that piece of green garden looked wonderful amid those grey, massive walls, which, could they but speak, are able to tell the stories of many a century. A few benches were placed here and there and I sat down. I knew that the Abbey itself had once upon a time been a monastery, and guessed that this had been the convent garden. I imagined that I could see the tall figures of the monks leaving the dormitory, proceeding slowly over the sparkling lawn, and disappearing behind the little door to attend their early morning service.