"I went to Zoppot once."
"Zoppot? Where's Zoppot? I never heard of Zoppot. I don't believe Zoppot's any good. Do you mean to say you've not been to a town, to a place where people say things and hear things and rub themselves alive against each other, since last I was here?"
"Well, but pastors' wives don't rub."
"But it's incredible! It's like death. Why didn't you?"
"Because I couldn't."
"As though it weren't possible to tear oneself free at least every now and then."
"You wait till you're a pastor's wife."
"But how do you manage to be so alive? For you shine, you know. When I think of all the things I've done since I was here last—" He broke off, and looked away from her across the lake. "Oh, well. Sickening things, really, most of them," he finished.
"Wonderful pictures," said Ingeborg, leaning forward and flushing with her enthusiasm. "That's what you've done."
"Yes. One paints and paints. But in between—it's those in between the work-fits that hash one up. What do you do in between?"