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Anna started.
“Yes, I may say,” continued Sintram, “that she
who gives up her beloved sells him to the devil.
That was the way I got into his claws. One thinks
one is going to do so much good; sacrifice is a
good thing, but love, that is evil.”
“What do you mean? What are you talking
about?” Anna asked, shaken with feeling.
“I mean that you shouldn’t have let Gösta
Berling give you up, Fröken Anna!”
“It was God’s will—”
“Yes, yes, of course, to sacrifice one’s self is
right, to love is wrong. The good Lord does not like to
see people happy. He sends wolves after them; but
what if it was n’t God’s doing, Fröken Anna?
Suppose it was I who called my nice grey lambs from
Dovrefjäll to chase that young man and woman?
Suppose I sent them because I feared to lose one
of my elect? Suppose it was n’t God who did it?”
“You must not tempt me to doubt on that point,
Herr Sintram,” said Anna, in a weak voice, “or I
am lost.”
“See here,” said he, leaning over the sleeping man,
“look at his little finger. That tiny cut never heals.
The blood was drawn from there when he signed
the contract. He is mine. There is a peculiar power
in blood. He is mine—it is only love that can free
him … but if I keep him, he will be a fine fellow.”
Anna Stjärnhök fought against the enchantment
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