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leaving it almost in darkness, while the blue dawn peeped
in through the windows.
The pastor was still talking, his voice first deep and
threatening, then feeble, almost whining.
“There you sit in gold and purple, and I’m laid here,
and the dogs lick my sores,—and what did you drop in
Abraham’s bosom? What did you put on the contribution
plate? You didn’t give so much as a silver eightpenny
bit in Christian Abraham’s bosom. And now you are in
torments—but no one shall dip the tip of his finger in
water for you,” — and he struck out with his hand in the
spilled beer,—“but I wash my hands—both hands—I
have warned you—hi!—there you go—yes, there you go
in sackcloth and ashes—my two new sacks—malt—”
He mumbled yet a while, then dropped asleep.
Meanwhile Erik Grubbe tried to take revenge. He caught the
arm of his chair firmly, stretched to his full length, and
kicked the leg of the chair with all his might, in the hope
that it was the pastor.
Presently all was still. There was no sound but the
snoring of the two old gentlemen and the monotonous drip,
drip of the beer running from the table.
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