Full resolution (JPEG) - On this page / på denna sida - XII
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When he saw her lying lifeless he had been in despair and
rage again, because he would not have let her go. Whatever
she had done he would have exonerated her, helped her, offered
her his love and trust.
As long as he lived there would be moments when he would
reproach her for choosing to die—Jenny, you should not have
done it. Yet there would be moments when he would
understand that she did so, because it was in keeping with her
character, and he would love her for it as long as he lived. And
never would he wish that he had not loved her.
But he would cry desperately, as he had already done,
because he had not loved her long before; he would cry for the
lost years when she had lived beside him as his friend and
comrade and he had not understood that she was the woman
who should have been his wife. And never would the day
dawn when he would wish he had not understood, even if only
to see that it was too late.
Gunnar rose from his knees. He took a small box from his
pocket and opened it. One of Jenny’s pink crystal beads was
in it. He had found it in the drawer of her dressing-table
when he packed up her belongings; the string had broken and
he kept one of the beads. He took some earth from the grave
and put it in the box. The bead rolled about in it and was
covered with grey dust, but the clear rose colour showed through
and the fine rents in the crystal glittered in the sun.
He had sent all her possessions to her mother, except the
letters, which he had burnt. The child’s clothes were in a sealed
cardboard box. He sent it to Francesca, remembering that
Jenny had said one day she would give them to her.
He had looked through all her sketch-books and drawings
before packing them and carefully cut out the leaves with the
picture of the boy, hiding them in his pocket-book. They were
his—all that was hers alone was his.
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