Egholm’s features writhed themselves into expressions of disgust as he read the tender words, the ardent longing, with which he had once written to a certain “dearest Anna.”
There were even some verses dedicated to that same Anna—“Dove of my heart....”
The verses in themselves were chiefly in praise of Helsingør, Helsingør.... As through a mist Egholm saw the two women who had played any part in his life—Clara Steen, from Helsingør, and Anna, from Aalborg. Once, the two had been as one in his mind—it was at the time he wrote those letters. The verses to Helsingør, dedicated to Anna, were proof of it. And now—ah, now ... Clara, a silken-soft, delicious dream, and Anna, a heavy, sighing, hollow-eyed reality.
Clara—what of Clara now? No; she was forgotten. All that Egholm remembered was the picture of her on the wall of her father’s office. But he remembered that only too well. Though it was long now since he had seen it of nights....
Egholm, the weary, his night’s rest broken, his hopes trampled under the butcher-boots of Karlsen Junior, his past for years back a ravening hunt for work; Egholm, the miserable, sank down on a chair and buried his face in the litter from the workbox, with the letters under it.
There was a bitterness in his mouth almost of physical disgust....
As it grew light he stole out of the house. The women were making coffee, with a great deal of fussing about. He seemed to remember they had come in once during the night, and showed him a child. He had expected it, and showed no surprise....
The walk out along the frosted roads did him good.
That money for the camera must be found. Ten kroner—after all, it was not a million. And he must have them....