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even the Lady of Ekeby had kept time to it in the
days when handsome Altringer lived. She saw them,
couple after couple, united by youth and beauty,
as they whirled before her, and a stream of gaiety
passed from her to them and back to her. It was
her polka which made their cheeks burn and their
eyes shine like that. She was far from it all now, but
the polka still rang out; there were so many happy
memories to drown!
She played, too, to deaden her fear. Her heart
grew faint with fright when she saw the black
hound, or heard the servants whisper about the
black bulls—and she played the polka, over and
over again, to deaden that fear.
Presently she noticed that her husband had
returned. She heard him come into the room and sit
down in the rocking-chair. She recognized his way
of rocking and the noise made by the rockers scraping
against the deal floor so well that she did not
turn toward him.
And still, as she played, the rocking continued
till it drowned all the sounds of her polka.
Poor old Ulrika, so wearied, so helpless and
lonely, alone in the enemies’ country, without a
friend to complain to, with no better companion
than an old harpsichord which answered her grief
with a polka!
It was like a laugh at a funeral or a drinking
song in church. And while the chair still rocked
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