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crying again. When she stopped, he lifted her head, looking
at her:
“My God, Jenny — what you must have suffered! I
cannot realize it.”
They walked back to the village in silence.
“Come with me to Berlin,” he said suddenly. “I cannot
bear to think of you here alone and brooding over this.”
“I have almost given up thinking,” she said, tired.
“Oh, it’s too awful!” he burst out, with such violence that
she came to a sudden stop. “Always the best of you that get
let in for this kind of thing, and we have no idea of what you
have to go through. It is dreadful!”
Heggen stayed three days. Jenny could not explain why,
but she felt much better after his visit. The unbearable
feeling of humiliation was gone; she was able to face her
confinement with more composure and confidence.
Mrs. Schlessinger went about smiling slyly in spite of Jenny’s
declaration that the gentleman was her cousin.
He had offered to send her some of his books, and at Christmas
a whole case arrived, besides flowers and chocolates. Every
week he wrote her a long letter about all manner of trifles,
enclosing cuttings from Norwegian papers. In January he came
up for her birthday and stayed two days, leaving behind some
of the latest Norwegian books. Shortly after his last visit she
fell ill. She was poorly, worried, and sleepless during the
remaining weeks. She had never busied her thoughts with
the actual confinement or been anxious about it before, but,
feeling always wretched now, she was seized by a sudden dread
of what she had to go through, and when the time came she was
quite worn out with insomnia and anxiety.
It was a nasty case. Jenny was more dead than alive when
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