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the wet, glistening street, where the rain splashed in
shining rivulets.
Marie Grubbe and Lucie were both dressed to go out,
the former in a fur-bordered cloak of broadcloth, the latter
in a cape of gray russet. They were pacing the red brick
floor with quick, firm little steps as though trying to keep
their feet warm while waiting for the rain to stop.
“Pray, d’ you think it’s a safe travelling companion
you’ve got?” asked Lucie.
“Sti Högh? Safe enough, I suppose. Why not?”
“Faith, I hope he won’t lose himself on the way, that’s
all.”
“Lose himself?”
“Ay, among the German maidens—or the Dutch, for
the matter of that. You know ’t is said of him his heart is
made of such fiery stuff, it bursts into flame at the least
flutter of a petticoat.”
“Who’s taken you to fools’ market with such fables?”
“Merciful! Did you never hear that? Your own
brother-in-law? Who’d have thought that could be news to you!
Why, I’d as lief have thought to tell you the week had
seven days.”
“Come, come, what ails you to-day? You run on as if
you’d had Spanish wine for breakfast.”
“One of us has, that’s plain. Pray have you never heard
tell of Ermegaard Lynow?”
“Never.”
“Then ask Sti Högh if he should chance to know her.
And name to him Jydte Krag and Christence Rud and
Edele Hansdaughter and Lene Poppings if you like. He
might happen to know some fables, as you call it, about
them all.”
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