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She ran up the stairs — those dreadful iron steps that echoed
their movements when they stole down from his rooms late in
the winter nights. The naked walls seemed ever to retain the
cold, raw air.
She hurried along the corridor and gave the usual three knocks
at his door. Gram opened it. He put his arm round her,
and locked the door with his other hand as they kissed. Over
his shoulder she could see the flowers on the little table, with
wine and foreign fruits in a crystal bowl. There was a slight
mist of cigarette smoke in the room, and she knew that he had
been sitting there since four o’clock waiting for her.
“I could not come before,” she whispered. “I was so sorry
to let you wait.” When he released her she went to the table,
bending over the flowers. “I will take two and make myself
nice, may I? I am getting so spoilt since I have come to you,
Gert.” She stretched out her hands to him.
“When must you go?” he asked, kissing her arms tenderly.
Jenny bent her head:
“I promised to be back for supper. Mother always waits
up for me, and she is so tired now; she needs me to help her
in the evening with one thing or another,” she said quickly.
“It is not so easy to get away from home, you see,” she
whispered in excuse.
He listened to her many words with bowed head. When
she came towards him he took her in his arms so that her face
was hidden against his shoulder.
She could not lie, poor little thing, not so well, anyhow, that
he would believe it for a single merciful second. In the winter
— the very short time of their love — and in the early spring
she could always be away from home.
“It is tiresome, Gert, but now I am living at home it is much
more difficult to manage; you know I have to be there because
mother needs the money as well as the help. You agreed with
me, did you not, that I had better move home?”
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