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drawing-room, where Lucie was passing the golden Dantzig
brandy. Marie had taken refuge in a bay-window, half
hidden by the full curtains. Ulrik Frederik went over to
her, bowed with exaggerated deference, and with a very
grave face expressed his disappointment at having been
seated so far from mademoiselle at the table. As he spoke,
he rested his small brown hand on the window-sill. Marie
looked at it and blushed scarlet.
“Pardon, Mademoiselle, I see that you are flushing with
anger. Permit me to present my most humble service! Might
I make so bold as to ask how I have had the misfortune to
offend you?”
“Indeed I am neither flushed nor angry.”
“Ah, so ’t is your pleasure to call that color white?
Bien! But then I would fain know by what name you
designate the rose commonly known as red!”
“Can you never say a sensible word?”
“Hm—let me see—ay, it has happened, I own, but
rarely—
Doch Chloë, Chloë zürne nicht!
Toll brennet deiner Augen Licht
Mich wie das Hundsgestirn die Hunde,
Und Worte schäumen mir vom Munde
Dem Geifer gleich der Wasserscheu—”
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