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She told herself that there would be a way out of it for her
as for so many other women. Fortunately she had spoken of
going abroad since last autumn. She had not made up her
mind about telling Gert or not, but she thought she would
not do it.
When she was not thinking of herself she thought of Cesca.
There was something the matter—something that was not as
it ought to be. She was sure Cesca was fond of Ahlin. Did
he not care for her any longer?
Cesca had had a bad time of it this first year of her married
life; there had been serious money troubles. Cesca looked so
small and dejected. Hour after hour of an evening she would
sit on Jenny’s bed telling her about all her household worries.
Everything was so expensive in Stockholm, and cheap food was
bad, especially when one had not learnt to cook. Housework
was all so difficult when one was brought up in such an idiotic
way as she had been, and the worst of it was that it had to be
done over and over again. She had scarcely finished cleaning
the house before it was in an awful state again, and the
moment she had finished a meal there was the washing up—and
so it went on indefinitely, cooking things, soiling plates, and
washing up again. Lennart tried to help her, but he was just
as clumsy and unpractical as she was. Then, too, she worried
about him. The commission for the monument had been given
to some one else after all; he was never appreciated, and yet he
was so gifted, but far too proud, both individually and as an
artist. It could not be helped—and she would not have had
him different. In the spring he had had a long illness, being
confined to bed for two months with scarlet fever, pneumonia,
and subsequent complications—it had been a very trying time
for Cesca.
But there was something else—Jenny felt it distinctly—that
Cesca did not tell her, and she knew she could not be to
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