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he couldn’t get the hang of them—they came and went as
if he’d nothing to say about it. It surely was queer the way
she’d looked at him, and she hadn’t said anything about his
sleeping this way in the middle of the day. She had looked
at him so kindly, straight out of her clear eyes, and—just
like Jens Pedersen’s Trine she had looked at him. Her
ladyship! Her ladyship! There was a story about a lady at
Nörbæk manor who had runaway with her gamekeeper. Had he
got such a look when he was asleep? Her ladyship! Maybe
he might get to be good friends with her ladyship, just as
the gamekeeper did. He couldn’t understand it—was he
sick? There was a burning spot on each of his cheeks, and
his heart beat, and he felt so queer, it was hard to breathe.
He began to tug at a stunted oak, but he could not get a grip
on it where he was sitting; he jumped up, tore it loose, and
threw it away, caught his scythe, and cut till the grass flew
in the swath.
In the days that followed, Marie often came near Sören,
who happened to have work around the house, and he
always stared at her with an unhappy, puzzled, questioning
expression, as if imploring her to give him the answer to the
riddle she had thrown in his way, but Marie only glanced
furtively in his direction and turned her head away.
Sören was ashamed of himself and lived in constant fear
that his fellow-servants would notice there was something
the matterwith him. He had never in all his life before been
beset by any feeling or longing that was in the least
fantastic, and it made him timid and uneasy. Maybe he was
getting addled or losing his wits. There was no knowing how
such things came over people, and he vowed to himself that
he would think no more about it, but the next moment his
thoughts were again taking the road he would have barred
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