Full resolution (JPEG) - On this page / på denna sida - Part one - II - III
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“Your friend is a painter, too, I understand?”
“Yes — she is very talented.”
“I remember seeing a picture of yours at the autumn
exhibition at home,” said Helge. “Roses in a copper bowl.”
“I painted it here last spring, but I am not altogether pleased
with it now. I was in Paris for two months in the summer,
and I think I learnt a lot in that time. But I sold it for three
hundred kroner — the price I had marked it for. There are
some things in it that are good.”
“You are a modern painter — I suppose you all are?”
Jenny smiled slightly, but did not answer.
The others waited at the bottom of the stairs. Jenny shook
hands with the men and said good morning.
“What do you mean by that?” said Heggen. “You are
not really going off to work now?”
“Yes; that is what I mean.”
“You are marvellous!”
“Oh, don’t, Jenny, come home!” Francesca shivered.
“Why shouldn’t I work? I am not a bit tired. Mr. Gram,
hadn’t you better take a cab home from here?”
“I suppose so. Is the post office open now? I know it is
not far from the Piazza di Spagna.”
“I am going past it — you can come with me.” She nodded
a last time to the others, who began to walk homeward.
Francesca hung limp on Ahlin’s arm, overcome with sleep.
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