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the compartment window looking at her, it seemed as if she had
not really seen her mother for ever so long. She took in with
her eyes the slightly stooping, slender figure, the fair hair that
scarcely seemed grey at all, and the strangely unaffected girlish
expression of her face, despite its wrinkles. Only the years,
not life, had made the furrows, in spite of all she had gone
through.
How would she take it if she knew? No, she would never
have the courage to tell her and see her under the blow — she
who knew nothing about it all and would not have understood.
If it had been impossible to go away Jenny thought she would
rather have taken her life. It was not love — it was cowardice.
She would have to tell her sometime, of course, but it would be
easier to do that later, from abroad.
As the train began to glide out from the station she saw Gert
walking slowly down the platform behind her mother and
sister, who were waving their handkerchiefs. He took off his hat,
looking very pale.
It was the first of September. Jenny sat by the window looking
out. It was a beautiful day, the air clear and cool, the
sky dark blue, and the clouds pure white. The morning dew
lay heavy on the rich green meadows where late daisies were in
bloom. The birches at the edge of the forest were already
turning yellow from the summer heat, and the bilberry shrub was
copper coloured. The clusters of the rowan were deep red;
where the trees stood on richer soil the leaves were still dark
green. The colouring was splendid.
On the slopes stood old silver-grey farmhouses or new shining
white or yellow ones with red-painted outhouses and crooked
old apple trees with yellow or glassy green fruit showing among
the foliage.
Time after time tears veiled her eyes; when she came back —
if she ever did....
The fjord became visible near Moss, a town built along the
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