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chased away the flitting throng of dreams and longings. She
could not define her feeling for Ulrik Christian; she only
knew that if he said Come, she must go to him, and if
he said Go, she must quit him. She did not understand it,
but it was so and had always been so, thus and not
otherwise.
With unwonted patience she worked all day long at
her sewing and her lace-making, meanwhile humming all
the mournful ballads she had ever known, about the roses
of love which paled and never bloomed again, about the
swain who must leave his truelove and go to foreign lands,
and who never, never came back any more, and about
the prisoner who sat in the dark tower such a long dreary
time, and first his noble falcon died, and then his faithful
dog died, and last his good steed died, but his faithless wife
Malvina lived merrily and well and grieved not for him.
These songs and many others she would sing, and
sometimes she would sigh and seem on the point of bursting
into tears, until Lucie thought her ill and urged her to put
way-bread leaves in her stockings.
When Ulrik Christian came in, a few days later, and
spoke gently and kindly to her, she too behaved as though
nothing had been between them, but she looked with
childlike curiosity at the large white hands that had held her in
such a hard grip, and she wondered what there could be in
his eyes or his voice that had so cowed her. She glanced at
the mouth, too, under its narrow, drooping moustache, but
furtively and with a secret thrill of fear.
In the weeks that followed he came almost every day,
and Marie’s thoughts became more and more absorbed
in him. When he was not there, the old house seemed dull
and desolate, and she longed for him as the sleepless long
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