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was dancing in the hotel, and couples walked about in the
small plantation where Jenny used to lie in the grass early in
the spring listening to the wash of the waves and the rustling
of the wind in the scraggy tree-tops.
One or two of the ladies looked at her with interest and
compassion when she walked on the beach in her black and white
dress. The summer visitors staying in the village had got to
know that a young Norwegian girl had had a child and was
disconsolately mourning its death, and some of them found it
more touching than scandalous.
She much preferred walking out into the country, where the
summer boarders never went. Once in a while she went as far
as the cemetery, where her boy was buried. She sat staring at
the grave, which she had not wished to have tended in any
way, sometimes laying on it some wild flowers which she had
picked on the way, but her mind refused to associate the little
mound of grey earth with her beloved little boy.
In her room in the evenings she sat staring at the lamp —
with needlework which she never touched. And her thoughts
were always the same: she remembered the days when she had
the boy — first the faint, peaceful joy while she was in bed,
getting well, then when she was sitting up and Mrs.
Schlessinger showed her how to bath and dress and handle him,
and when they went to Warnemünde together to buy fine
material, lace, and ribbon, and how on their return home she cut
and sewed, designed and embroidered. Her boy was to have
nice things, instead of the common, ready-made outfit she had
ordered from Berlin. She had also bought a ridiculous garden
syringe of green-painted tin, with pictures of a lion and a
tiger, standing by a blue sea amid palms and looking with awe
at the German dreadnoughts steaming away towards the African
possessions of the Empire. She had found it so amusing that
she bought it for baby-boy to play with when he should be big
enough — after a very long time. He must first learn to find
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