Fru Westergaard tucked away her book again with trembling hands.
“Perhaps you’ll let me pass?”
“It’s twenty-six sixty-three, all the same,” said the Evangelist, without moving an inch.
“I won’t give more than twenty-six thirty!” She stamped her foot. Mirre growled softly, and sniffed round and round Karlsen’s legs.
“Twenty-six sixty-three.”
“Sh!” old Karlsen intervened. “We’ll take what Fruen thinks is right. The Lord is long-suffering.... Lauritz, you can be putting out the corner lights.”
Thus did the Angel, by his wisdom and gentleness, save one soul for the congregation of the Brethren.
Fru Westergaard had, it appeared, the money in a separate compartment of her bag, all ready counted out. Handing them to Angel Karlsen, she said:
“And you’re quite sure there’s no Hell, really?”
“No Hell....”