📖 La Maison du canal

In the stream of people flowed in fits and starts towards the exit, she was the only one not to rush. His travel bag in hand, head erect beneath the veil of mourning, she waited her turn to tender his ticket to the employee, then she took a few steps. When she took the train to Brussels, it was six o'clock in the morning and darkness was heavy freezing rain. The third-class compartment was too wet, wet floor muddy underfoot, walls wetted by a viscous fog, wet windows, inside and out. People slept in wet clothes. At eight o'clock, just arrived in Hasselt, it turned out the lights of the train and those of the station. In waiting rooms, umbrellas were losing water drains fluid that smelled like wet silk. Around stoves, people were drying and they were almost black, as Edmee. Was it a coincidence? Remarked on her because she was in deep mourning?