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was a peculiarly genial and festive atmosphere
in our little circle; we all enjoyed each other’s
company, and felt that we were understood and
appreciated.
Jonas Lie was in excellent spirits. In his
speech to Sonia he did not pay homage to the
woman of science, nor to the authoress, but he
spoke to ‘little Tania Rajevski, who had won
his heart, and with whom he felt deep sympathy.
He was so sorry for the child, who was longing
for affection, and whom nobody understood.
Later on, life had showered all its gifts upon
her—honour, distinction, and triumph; but there
the child stood, still with her large wistful eyes,
stretching out her empty hands. What did she
want, this little girl? She only wanted a kind
hand to give her an orange.’
‘Thank you, Mr Lie,’ Sonia exclaimed, with
her sweet voice full of emotion, ‘I have received
many toasts in my life, but never one so
charming!’
She could not say any more, but sat down and
swallowed her tears with a glass of water. On
going home that night she felt happier than she
had done for a long while.
So, after all, there was one who understood
her, though he knew nothing of her personal
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