Page:The collected works of Henrik Ibsen (Volume 7).djvu/47

 Mrs. Linden.

And much, much older, Nora.

Nora.

Yes, perhaps a little older—not much—ever so little. [She suddenly checks herself; seriously.] Oh, what a thoughtless wretch I am! Here I sit chattering on, and Dear, dear Christina, can you forgive me!

Mrs. Linden.

What do you mean, Nora?

Nora.

[Softly.] Poor Christina! I forgot: you are a widow.

Mrs. Linden.

Yes; my husband died three years ago.

Nora.

I know, I know; I saw it in the papers. Oh, believe me, Christina, I did mean to write to you; but I kept putting it off, and something always came in the way.

Mrs. Linden.

I can quite understand that, Nora dear.

Nora.

No, Christina; it was horrid of me. Oh, you poor darling! how much you must have gone through!—And he left you nothing?

Mrs. Linden.

Nothing.

Nora.

And no children?