She had a feeling as though she were alone in the world.
Fru Adelheid was not happy.
The peace which the good grey years had brought had departed from the house. She could not see her way anywhere: not with Finn, not when she was alone, least of all when Cordt was in the room.
She did not feel safe even at church. It would happen to her that she left church heavier in mind than when she entered. It also happened that she simply dared not go in, but turned back, when the organ pealed to her in the porch.
She sat and stared, with her white hands folded in her lap. She wanted to try if she could think the thing out to the end. But she had tried before, with ever-decreasing success.
First, there was the going back to the old room.
This was the beginning and she could not but think that it was the whole matter, for, in truth, she had never got over it. She could not defend herself against the memories that came crowding one upon the other. Her blood grew hot, her eyes moist, without her knowing why.
She suffered from a constant terror which she could neither explain nor shake off. Now it was Finn, whose pale face frightened her. Now it was Cordt, who was silent and ever more silent and brooded over his thoughts.
Then she was overcome as by a despairing remorse and she could not see how she had offended. Then she went in a secret dread of revenge and she knew of no one who meant her any harm.
There were days on which every step she took gave a dull and threatening echo of the old days. She felt as though she were living in a house whose walls were full of secret recesses with old documents which would upset everything that existed, if they came to light ... she felt as though she were walking over mysterious vaults that concealed the traces of mysterious crimes.