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of the glaziers swung in a restless glitter that vied with the
polished basins of the barber-surgeons. Doors and shutters
were slamming in the back-yards. The chickens hid their
heads under barrels and sheds, and even the pigs grew
uneasy in their pens, when the wind howled through sunlit
cracks and gaping joints.
The storm brought an oppressive heat. Within the
houses the people were gasping for breath, and only the flies
were buzzing about cheerfully in the sultry atmosphere.
The streets were unendurable, the porches were draughty,
and hence people who possessed gardens preferred to seek
shelter there.
In the large enclosure behind Christoffer Urne’s house
in Vingaardsstræde, a young girl sat with her sewing under
a Norway maple. Her tall, slender figure was almost frail,
yet her breast was deep and full. Luxuriant waves of black
hair and almost startlingly large dark eyes accented the
pallor of her skin. The nose was sharp, but finely cut,
the mouth wide though not full, and with a morbid
sweetness in its smile. The lips were scarlet, the chin somewhat
pointed, but firm and well rounded. Her dress was
slovenly: an old black velvet robe embroidered in gold that
had become tarnished, a new green felt hat from which
fell a snowy plume, and leather shoes that were worn to
redness on the pointed toes. There was lint in her hair, and
neither her collar nor her long, white hands were
immaculately clean.
The girl was Christoffer Urne’s niece, Sofie. Her father,
Jörgen Urne of Alslev, Councillor of the Realm, Lord
High Constable, and Knight of the Elephant, had died
when she was yet a child, and a few years ago her mother,
Mistress Margrethe Marsvin, had followed him. The
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