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  • We are at the district capital. We get out at the railway station. Wanda
  • throws off her furs and places them over my arm, and goes to secure the
  • tickets.
  • When she returns she has completely changed.
  • "Here is your ticket, Gregor," she says in a tone which supercilious ladies
  • use to their servants.
  • "A third-class ticket," I reply with comic horror.
  • "Of course," she continues, "but now be careful. You won't get on until I am
  • settled in my compartment and don't need you any longer. At each station you
  • will hurry to my car and ask for my orders. Don't forget. And now give me my
  • furs."
  • After I had helped her into them, humbly like a slave, she went to find an
  • empty first-class coupe. I followed. Supporting herself on my shoulder, she
  • got on and I wrapped her feet in bear-skins and placed them on the warming
  • bottle.
  • Then she nodded to me, and dismissed me. I slowly ascended a third- class
  • carriage, which was filled with abominable tobacco-smoke that seemed like the
  • fogs of Acheron at the entrance to Hades. I now had the leisure to muse about
  • the riddle of human existence, and about its greatest riddle of all—woman.