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canal, with factory walls and the small wooden houses in gay
colours surrounded by gardens. Often when passing it in the
train she had thought of going there some day to paint.
The train passed the junction where a branch line turns off
to Tegneby. Jenny looked out of the window at the familiar
places; there was the drive leading to the house, which lay
behind the little fir grove, and there was the church. Dear
little Cesca liked to go to church; she felt herself safe and
protected there, borne away by a sentiment of supernatural strength.
Cesca believed in something — she did not quite know what,
but had created some kind of a God for herself.
Jenny was pleased to think, that Cesca and her husband
seemed to be getting on better. She had written that he had
not quite understood her, but had, nevertheless, been so kind
and dear and convinced that she would never do anything
wrong — on purpose. Strange little Cesca! Everything must
come right with her in the end. She was honest and good.
But she herself was neither, not to any considerable degree. If
only she need not see her mother’s tears; she could bear to hurt
her — it only meant that she was afraid of scenes.
And Gert? Her heart shrank at the thought of him. A
feeling of physical sickness rose in her, a despair and loathing
so profound that she felt herself played out — on the point of
becoming indifferent to everything.
Those awful last days in Christiania with him. She had
given in at last.
He was coming to Copenhagen, and she had to promise to
stay somewhere in the country so that he could come and see
her. Would she ever be able to get quite free of him?
In the end she would perhaps have to leave the child with him
and run away from it all — for it was a lie, all she had told
him about being happy about it and the rest. Sometimes at
Tegneby she had really felt so, because she only remembered
it was her child — not his at all. But if it were to be a link
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