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her features relaxed, her eyes downcast, and the injured
hand lay listlessly in her lap wrapped in a lace
handkerchief. He would have taken it, but she languidly held out
her left hand to him and leaned her head back with a pained
smile.
Ulrik Frederik kissed the hand she gave him and made
a joking excuse for his condition the night before, saying
that he had never been decently drunk all the time he had
been in Spain, for the Spaniards knew nothing about
drinking. Besides, if the truth were told, he liked the homemade
alicant and malaga wine from Johan Lehn’s dram-shop
and Bryhans’ cellar better than the genuine sweet devilry
they served down there.
Marie made no reply.
The breakfast table was set, and Ulrik Frederik asked
if they should not fall to, but she begged him to pardon
her letting him eat alone. She wanted nothing, and her
hand hurt; he had quite bruised it. When his guilt was thus
brought home to him he was bound to look at the injured
hand and kiss it, but Marie quickly hid it in a fold of her
dress, with a glance—he said—like a tigress defending
her helpless cub. He begged long, but it was of no use, and
at last he sat down to the table laughing, and ate with an
appetite that roused a lively displeasure in Marie. Yet he
could not sit still. Every few minutes he would jump up
and run to the window to look out; for the familiar street
scenes seemed to him new and curious. With all this
running, his breakfast was soon scattered about the room, his
beer in one window, the bread-knife in another, his
napkin slung over the vase of the gilded Gueridon, and a bun
on the little table in the corner.
At last he had done eating and settled down at the
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