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He started from the bench as with pain. No, no! He
clung to his own humble longing and threw himself again
in his thoughts at her feet, clutched at the hopelessness of
his love, held up before his eyes the image of her
indifference, and—Marie Grubbe stood there in the arched door
of the grotto, fair against the outside darkness.
All that evening she had been in a strangely enraptured
mood. She felt calm and sound and strong. The music and
pomp, the homage and admiration of the men, were like
a carpet of purple spread out for her feet to tread upon.
She was intoxicated and transported with her own beauty.
The blood seemed to shoot from her heart in rich, glowing
jets and become gracious smiles on her lips, radiance in her
eyes, and melody in her voice. Her mind held an exultant
serenity, and her thoughts were clear as a cloudless sky.
Her soul seemed to unfold its richest bloom in this blissful
sense of power and harmony.
Never before had she been so fair as with that imperious
smile of joy on her lips and the tranquillity of a queen in
her eyes and bearing, and thus she stood in the arched door
of the grotto, fair against the outside darkness. Looking
down at Sti Högh, she met his gaze of hopeless adoration,
and at that she bent down, laid her white hand as in pity
on his hair, and kissed him. Not in love—no, no!—but as
a king may bestow a precious ring on a faithful vassal as a
mark of royal grace and favor, so she gave him her kiss in
calm largesse.
As she did so, her assurance seemed to leave her for a
moment, and she blushed, while her eyes fell. If Sti Högh
had tried to take her then or to receive her kiss as anything
more than a royal gift, he would have lost her forever, but
he knelt silently before her, pressed her hand gratefully
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