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He married late in life, but it would have been
better if he had never done so, for his wretched,
overworked wife soon died. His daughter earned
her bread among strangers. He was growing an
old man, but his years brought no alteration in his
hunger for gain. The madness of the miser had him
in its grasp.
But one fine day, in the beginning of August,
a heavy calash drawn by four horses drove up the
hill at Broby. A little old lady was coming in great
haste, with coachman, footman, and lady’s maid,
to see the Broby parson—the man she had loved
in her youth.
He had been tutor on her father’s estate, and they
had loved each other, but her family had parted
them; now she was coming to Broby to see him
again before she died. All that life could give her
now was to see once more the lover of her youth.
She sat in the big carriage and dreamed. It was
not over the Broby hills to the house of a poor
vicar she was hurrying, but to the cool, thickly
overgrown arbor down the path where her lover
awaited her. She sees him: he is young, can kiss,
can love her. Now that she was to see him again,
his image stood unusually clear before her. He was
so handsome, so very handsome. He burned with
passion and filled all her being with rapture.
She was old now and sallow and wrinkled. Perhaps
he would not recognize her with her burden
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