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 "I cannot say it now," she whispered in agony.

Helge touched her hair lightly, and left.

Jenny remained on the sofa crying long and bitterly—her mind a perfect blank. Tired with crying, and worn out after all these months of petty, racking humiliation and quarrels, she felt her heart empty and cold. Helge was probably right.

After a while she began to feel hungry, and, looking at her watch, saw it was six. She had been sitting like this for four hours. When she rose to put on her coat she noticed that she had had it on all the time.

By the door she perceived a small pool of water running on to some of her pictures standing against the wall. She went for a duster to wipe it up, and, realizing suddenly that the pool was left from Helge's umbrella, she leaned her forehead against the door and cried again.

ER dinner did not take long. She tried to read a paper to divert her mind for a moment, but it was no nono [sic] good. She might just as well go home and sit there.

On the upper landing a man stood waiting. He was tall and thin. She took the last steps running, calling out Helge's name.

"It is not Helge," came the answer. It was his father.

Jenny stood breathless before him, stretching out her hands: "Gert—what is it?—has anything happened?"

"Hush, hush!" He took her hand. "Helge has gone—he went to Kongsberg on a visit to a friend—a schoolfellow of his who lives there. Were you afraid, child, that something else had happened?"