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Marie Grubbe, too, went to bed, but she could not sleep.
She lay thinking, sometimes blushing at her own fancies,
then tossing about as if she feared them. It was late when
she rose. She smiled contemptuously at herself as she
dressed. Her every-day attire was usually careless, even
slovenly, though on special occasions she would adorn herself
in a manner more showy than tasteful, but this morning
she put on an old though clean gown of blue homespun,
tied a little scarlet silk kerchief round her neck, and took
out a neat, simple little cap; then she suddenly changed her
mind again and chose instead one with a turned-up rim of
yellow and brown flowered stuff and a flounce of
imitation silver brocade in the back, which went but poorly with
the rest. Palle Dyre supposed she wanted to go to town and
gossip about the fire, and he thought to himself there were
no horses to drive her there. She stayed home, however,
but somehow she could not work. She would take up one
thing after another, only to drop it as quickly. At last she
went out into the garden, saying that she meant to set to
rights what the horses had trampled in the night, but she
did not accomplish much; for she sat most of the time in an
arbor with her hands in her lap, gazing thoughtfully into
the distance.
The unrest that had come over her did not leave her, but
grew worse day by day. She was suddenly seized with a
desire for lonely walks in the direction of Fastrup Grove, or
in the more distant parts of the outer garden. Her father and
husband both scolded her, but when she turned a deaf ear
and did not even answer them, they finally made up their
minds that it was best to let her go her own way for a short
time, all the more as it was not the busy season.
About a week after the fire, she was taking her usual walk
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