Full resolution (JPEG) - On this page / på denna sida - Ebba Dohna’s Story
<< prev. page << föreg. sida << >> nästa sida >> next page >>
Below is the raw OCR text
from the above scanned image.
Do you see an error? Proofread the page now!
Här nedan syns maskintolkade texten från faksimilbilden ovan.
Ser du något fel? Korrekturläs sidan nu!
This page has been proofread at least once.
(diff)
(history)
Denna sida har korrekturlästs minst en gång.
(skillnad)
(historik)
long as he did not drink. And Countess Märta was
not very particular. It amused her to tease the rector
and curate. Still she ordered that no one was to
speak of his past life to her children, for her son
would have lost all respect for him, and her
daughter could not have endured him, for she was a saint.
“So he came here to Borg. He always remained
near the door, sat on the extreme edge of his chair,
was silent at table, and disappeared into the park as
soon as visitors arrived.
“But there, in the lonely paths, he used to meet
Ebba Dohna. She was not of those who loved the
noisy fêtes that stormed through the halls of Borg
since Countess Märta had become a widow. She was
not of those who sent daring glances out into the
world. She was so shy and gentle. Even when she
was seventeen, she was but a tender child, but
she was very beautiful, with her brown eyes and the
fair flush on her cheeks. Her thin, slim figure bent
slightly forward. Her narrow little hand slipped into
yours with a shy pressure. Her little mouth was the
most silent of mouths, and the most serious. And
her voice—her sweet, low voice, which pronounced
the words so slowly and distinctly—never rang with
any healthy youthfulness or warmth, but its tired
tones sounded like a wearied musician’s closing
chords.
“She was not like other girls. Her feet trod the
earth so lightly, so silently, as if she were but a
<< prev. page << föreg. sida << >> nästa sida >> next page >>
