Kneirtje.
Yes, that’s true, you never see them otherwise.
Truus.
[Resigned.] You’ll never marry a fisherman, Miss; but it’s sad, sad; God, so sad! when they lash your dear one to a plank, wrapped in a piece of sail with a stone in it, three times around the big mast, and then, one, two, three, in God’s name. The fish are dearly paid for. [Sobs softly.]
Jo.
[Rising and embracing her.] Now, Truus!
Saart.
Pour her out another bowl. [To Marietje.] Are you crying again? She keeps thinking of Mees?
Marietje.
No, I wasn’t thinking of Mees, I was thinking of my little brother, who was also drowned.