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but she checked herself. She was suddenly filled with disgust
— she knew that she was half drunk, but she would not
accentuate it by beginning to shout, moan, and explain — perhaps
cry, before Gunnar. She set her teeth.
They reached their own entrance. Heggen opened the door
and struck a match to light her up the endless flight of dark
stone steps. Their two small rooms were on the half-landing
at the end of the stairs; a small passage outside their doors
ended in a marble staircase leading to the flat roof of the
house.
At her door she shook hands with him, saying in a low
voice:
“Good-night, Gunnar — thanks for tonight.”
“Thank you. Sleep well.”
“Same to you.”
Gunnar opened the window in his room. The moon shone
on an ochre-yellow wall opposite, with closed shutters and
black iron balconies. Behind it rose Pincio, with sharply
outlined dark masses of foliage against the blue moonlit sky.
Below him were old moss-covered roofs, and where the dark
shadow of the house ended some washing was hung out to dry
on a terrace farther down. He was leaning on the window-sill,
disgusted and sad. He was not very particular in general,
but to see Jenny in such a state. Ugh! And it was more or
less his own fault; she had been so melancholy the first months
of her return — like a wounded bird — and to cheer her up a
little he had persuaded her to join the party, thinking of course
that he and she would amuse themselves by watching the others
only, never for a moment suspecting that it would have such an
effect on her. He heard her come out from her room and go
on to the roof. He hesitated a moment, then followed her.
She was sitting in the only chair, behind the little corrugated-iron
summer-house. The pigeons cooed sleepily in the dovecot
above.
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