Isak admired each thing in silence. She took out a bundle of little collars—Leopoldine's, they were. And gave Isak a black neckerchief for himself, shiny as silk.
"Is that for me?" said he.
"Yes, it's for you."
He took it carefully in his hands, and stroked it.
"Do you think it's nice?"
"Nice—why I could go round the world in such."
But Isak's fingers were rough; they stuck in the curious silky stuff.
Now Inger had no more things to show. But when she had packed them all up again, she sat there still; and the way she sat, he could see her legs, could see her red-bordered stockings.
"H'm," said he. "Those'll be town-made things, I doubt?"
"'Tis wool was bought in the town, but I knitted them myself. They're ever so long—right up above the knee—look…."