“No, no.”
“Or go and kill ourselves?”
“No, no. Sit still, Sivert dear, and don’t say a word. Maybe God will help us. We might put something over the bowl ... no. Better leave it as it is.”
Heavy steps on the stairs outside. Egholm walks in, strong and erect again now.
He hangs up his wet things, and fumbles with a pair of sodden cuffs.
“Didn’t get a place, I suppose?” asks his wife, looking up from the machine. Sivert sits obediently at a little table at the farther end of the room.
“Is it likely?” Egholm’s face is that of one suffering intensely. And he speaks in an injured tone.
“I only thought.... You’re home earlier than usual.”
No answer. Egholm walks over to the window and stares into the greyness without, his long, thin fingers pulling now and again at his dark beard.
Lost in thought....