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No, she could not deny that.
For Count Henrik was not handsome. He was
as ugly as he was stupid. They said of him that the
head on his shoulders had been an inheritance in
the family for a few hundred years, therefore the
brain was so worn out in the present possessor. “It
is clear he has no head of his own,” they said; “he
has borrowed his father’s. He dare not bend it, he
is afraid it might drop off. He is already quite yellow
and wrinkled; his head has evidently been in use
both in his father’s and grandfather’s time, otherwise
the hair would not be so thin and his lips so
bloodless and his chin so sharp.”
He was constantly surrounded by a crowd of
jokers who tempted him into saying stupid things,
and then they collected them, spread them abroad,
and helped them out.
It was a mercy he noticed nothing. He was dignified
and pompous in all he did, he never dreamed
others were different; respectability had taken
bodily shape in him—he moved languidly, he walked
stiffly, he never turned his head without his whole
body following it.
One day, some years ago, he had been at Munkerud,
at the Judge’s. He had ridden there in tall
hat, yellow riding-trousers, and shining boots,
sitting stiffly and proudly in his saddle. His arrival
passed off very well, but when he rode away it
happened that one of the overhanging branches in the
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