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When these guests dined at Borg, the gentlemen
usually went after dinner into the Count’s room to
smoke and take a nap; the old ladies sank into
the armchairs in the salon and leaned their worthy
heads against the high-cushioned backs; but the
Countess and Anna Stjärnhök went away into the
blue cabinet and exchanged endless confidences.
And on the Sunday following the one on which
Anna had taken old Ulrika Dillner back to Berga,
they were sitting there again.
No one on earth was more wretched than Anna.
All her gaiety was gone, as was the happy audacity
with which she met every one and everything that
threatened to touch her.
All that had taken place that day had sunk, in
her consciousness, into the twilight from which it
had emanated. She had not a single clear
impression.
Yes, one—which poisoned her soul.
“If it was not God,” she kept whispering to
herself, “if it was not God, who sent the wolves?”
She demanded a sign, a miracle. She searched
the heavens and the earth, but she saw no hand
stretched from the skies to point out her way. No
cloud of smoke and fire went before her.
As she sat opposite the Countess in the little
blue cabinet, her eyes fell upon a small bouquet of
blue anemones which the Countess held in her white
hand. Like lightning it flashed across her that she
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