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Through white lips Gösta whispered, “Ferdinand.”
She silenced him with a kiss.
“He is nothing—no one exists but you. I shall
be faithful to you alone.”
“I am Gösta Berling,” he answered, gloomily;
“you cannot marry me.”
“It is you I love—you, the noblest of men. You
need do nothing, be nothing, you are born a king.”
The poet’s blood in him surged. She was so
enchanting in her love, he clasped her in his arms.
“If you will be mine, Anna, you cannot stay at
the parsonage. Let me carry you away to-night to
Ekeby, and I will guard you there till we can be
married.”
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