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148

(1921) Author: Sigrid Undset
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“Yes, please.”

He stroked her hand: “Poor little Jenny. You had better
go now — before she comes.”

Mrs. Gram brought a tray of cakes and dessert.

“How nice of you to play to us, Gert. Don’t you think my
husband plays beautifully, Miss Winge? Has he played to
you before?” she asked innocently.

Jenny shook her head: “I did not know that Mr. Gram
played the piano.”

“What a beautiful worker you are.” She looked at Jenny’s
embroidery. “I thought you artists did not condescend to do
needlework. It is a lovely pattern — where did you get it?
Abroad, I suppose?”

“I designed it myself.”

“Oh well, then it is easy to get nice patterns. Have you
seen this, Aagot? Isn’t it pretty? You are very clever” —
and she patted Jenny’s hand.

What loathsome hands she had, thought Jenny — small,
short fingers, with nails broader than long, and splayed out
wide.

Helge and Jenny saw Aagot to her rooms and walked slowly
down Pilestaedet in the pale night of June. The chestnuts in
bloom along the hospital wall smelt strongly after the
afternoon shower.

“Helge,” said Jenny, “you must try and arrange so that
we need not go with them the day after tomorrow.”

“It is impossible. They have asked you and you have
accepted. It is for your sake they have arranged this picnic.”

“But can you not understand how miserable it will be? I
wish we could go alone somewhere, you and I, as in Rome.”

“There is nothing I would like better, but if we refuse to
be a party to their midsummer outing it will only make things
more unpleasant at home.”

“Not more than usual, I suppose,” she said scornfully.

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