“Always? No, indeed I do not!”
She knew that tone, and added adroitly, as she took the knitting-needle out again and went on knitting:
“Yes, you are always so much too good, while those who don’t possess a penny, and don’t pay a farthing in taxes, govern us and order us about, and we have just to say ‘Thank you’ and pay.”
This was a healing balm, as she gave expression to the very sentiment that Norby himself was accustomed to propound.
“I suppose you’ve heard what has happened to Wangen,” she said, smiling grimly at her knitting.
“She knows it, then, confound it!” thought the old man. He was standing in front of the stove with his hands behind him, black-bearded, bald, with his blue serge coat buttoned tightly across his broad chest. His large head drooped wearily upon his breast, and he glanced at his wife from beneath his eyebrows. He did not feel equal to any explanations this evening. He had been out in the cold for several hours, and the warmth of the house made him feel increasingly heavy and sleepy.
“Yes indeed!” he said with a yawn; “who would have thought of such a thing happening?”
She gave a little scornful laugh.
“It seems to me you have prophesied it often enough of late,” she said. “But you may be glad you’ve had nothing to do with him.”