"After this, it would be most improper for us ever to have beer-soup here again. We don't care for it and there are hundreds of little boys who love it. If it must be made, then Aunt Anna must come every Saturday and fetch it. She knows where the boys live."
The omelette is eaten in silence, after which Aunt Anna shakes the dust from her shoes. She won't have any coffee today.
While she is standing in the hall and putting on her endless wraps, a last doubt arises in my little boy's soul. He opens his green eyes wide before her face and whispers:
"Aunt Anna, where do the boys live?"
Aunt Anna pinches him and is shocked and goes off, having suffered a greater defeat than she can ever repair.
V
My little boy comes into my room and tells me, with a very long face, that Jean is dead. And we put all nonsense on one side and hurry away to the Klampenborg train, to go where Jean is.
For Jean is the biggest dog that has lived for some time.
He once bit a boy so hard that the boy still walks lame. He once bit his own master. He could give such a look out of his eyes and open such a mouth that there was no more horrible sight in the world. And then he would be the mildest of the mild: my little boy could put his hand in his mouth and ride on his back and pull his tail.
When we get there, we hear that Jean is already buried.