Aagot. Why, aunt? About me?
Leonarda. You are the sunshine of my life; you have brought light and warmth and gentleness into it—but it is just because of that—
Aagot. Because of that? Aunt, I don't understand you.
Leonarda. I am clumsy, I am hard, I am suspicious—wicked. I am a savage, with no more self-restraint than I ever had. What sort of a figure must I cut in his eyes—and in yours? Tell me! Am I not a clumsy, ugly—
Aagot. You are the sweetest woman in the whole work! It is only your indomitable strength and courage and youthfulness—
Leonarda. No, no—tell me the truth! I deserve it! Because, you know, it has been for your sake that for eight years I have only associated with work-people. All that I have will be yours. So have some respect for me, Aagot—tell me the truth! Am I not—what shall I say? Tell me what I am!
Aagot. Adorable!
Leonarda. No, no! I have never realised as strongly as I do now how I have buried myself all these eight years. All the books I have read about the great movements going on in the world outside have not really enlightened me. All that I have read and thought fades away before the first gleam of life that reaches me from the real world of men and women. I see new beauty merely in your new clothes, your fashionable hat—the colours you are wearing—the way they are blended. They mean something that I know nothing of. You bring a fragrance in with you—a breath of freshness; you are so dainty and full of life; whereas everything here has become so old, so heavy, so disjointed—and my life most of all.
Aagot. Well, I must tell you what he said, since you won't believe what I say.
Leonarda. But he knew nothing about me?