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and stable the horses and put the coach in its place. Then
he strutted about a little while, his hands buried deep in
the pockets of his long livery coat, his eyes fixed on his
great boots. Suddenly he turned abruptly toward the
brew-house, swinging one arm resolutely, frowning and biting
his lips like a man who is forcing himself to an unpleasant
but unavoidable decision. He had, in fact, been swearing
to himself all the way from Viborg to Foulum that this
must end, and he had kept up his courage with a little flask,
which his master had forgotten to take out of the coach.
He took off his hat when he came into the house, but
said nothing, simply stood passing his fingers awkwardly
along the edge of the brewing-vat.
Marie asked whether Sören had any message to her from
her husband.
No.
Would Sören taste her brew, or would he like a piece
of sugar-honey?
Yes, thank you—or that is, no, thanks—that wasn’t
what he’d come for.
Marie blushed and felt quite uneasy.
Might he ask a question?
Ay, indeed he might.
Well, then, all he wanted to say was this, with her kind
permission, that he wasn’t in his right mind, for waking
or sleeping he thought of nothing but her ladyship, and he
couldn’t help it.
Ah, but that was just what Sören ought to do.
No, he wasn’t so sure of that, for ’t was not in the way of
tending to his work that he thought of her ladyship. ’T was
quite different; he thought of her in the way of what folks
called love.
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