Every night found her bending over the machine. She had learned now when
not to listen. She had timed the reproduction absolutely, and watch in
hand she waited until the other messages were done, and her own voice
began. There was no condensing possible; one must either each time have
every conversation or stop it. But how could she stop it before the end?
Locking the door and drawing the heavy curtain, she would sit down in
the far corner and begin to turn. She knew just how fast to turn for
others; so slowly for herself. When the watch gave her the signal she
would begin to listen.
'Is that you? Is that you? But I know it is. How distinctly you speak!'
'Yes, it's me,'--and the soft vibrant laugh.
'How are you, dear?'
'Better, I hope.'
'Have you missed me?'
'Missed you!'