Full resolution (JPEG) - On this page / på denna sida - The Ball at Ekeby
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“I think you are in love with me,” he said,
jestingly.
“Don’t believe any thing of the kind,” she smiled,
“or I shall be obliged to thrust this dagger into you
to prove that you are wrong.”
“Women’s kisses are dear,” said Gosta. “Does
it cost a life to be kissed by Marienne Sinclaire?”
A glance flashed from her eyes, so sharp that he
felt it like a blow.
“I would rather see you dead, Gösta
Berling—dead—dead!”
These words awoke the old longing in the heart
of the poet.
“Ah,” he said, “if your words were more than
words, if they were bullets out of a dark thicket,
if they were daggers or poison, and had the power
to destroy this wretched body and give my soul its
freedom!”
But she was again calm and smiling. “Childishness!”
she said, and took his arm to rejoin the
guests.
They retained their costumes, and their triumph
was renewed when they showed themselves. All
praised them, no one suspected anything.
The ball began again, but Gösta shunned the
dancing-room. His heart was smarting from
Marienne’s glance as if it had touched it like sharp steel.
He understood too well the meaning of her words.
It was a shame to love him, a shame to be loved by
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