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could tell! She wondered that Amor still dared
show himself on this earth, that he was not frightened
away by the wails of the forsaken, by the curses
of those whom he had turned into criminals, by the
lamentations of others whom he had cast into hateful
bondage, and she marvelled that his wings could
bear him so lightly, that he did not fall into the
abyss of oblivion, weighed down by shame and
remorse.
To be sure, she, like others, had once been young,
but she had never been in love with Love. Never
had she let herself be tempted to dance or to take
or give a caress. Her mother’s guitar hung in the
attic, dusty and unstrung, but Mamselle Marie
had never thrummed inane love-ditties on it. Her
mother’s potted rose-tree stood in the window;
she watered it, that was all, for she was not fond of
flowers, those children of love. Its leaves sagged
with dust, spiders spun webs between the stems,
and the buds never opened.
In Fru Moreus’s rose-garden, where butterflies
fluttered and birds sang, where fragrant blossoms
wafted their love messages to circling bees—where
everything spoke of the detestable Amor—she
seldom set foot.
Then there came a time when the Svartsjö folk
had an organ put into their church. A young
organ-builder arrived in the parish, and he too became a
lodger at Fru Moreus’s cottage.
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