"'Tis a sound thrashing you should have—and don't be too sure but that you'll have it yet."
Olof did not venture to look up, but the voice told that his father was working himself into a passion.
"What's to come of you, hey, d'you think? Getting the wenches with child to begin with—and what next?"
"Father!" It was his mother's voice. Her face was anxious, as if in dread of coming disaster.
A glance of cold anger was all her husband's answer. He turned to the boy once more, and went on:
"What next, hey? Bring home the brats for us to feed, maybe? Is it that's in your mind?"
A flush of indignation spread over the young man's face. Was this his father, speaking to him thus? Or some brutal stranger that had taken his place?
And all at once a rush of feeling took possession of him, something new and fierce and strange, filling him altogether. He raised his head, as if to speak, but said no word, only rose up, as if someone had taken him by the hand, and walked towards the door.
"Where are you going—what?"
"I've my work to do."