The Baron still had the ladies constantly round him. He regretted that his collections were packed away, so that he could not show them—that bunch of weed from the White Sea, the clay from Korholmerne, highly interesting stone formations from the bottom of the sea. The ladies peeped curiously at his shirt studs, the five-pointed coronets—they meant that he was a Baron, of course. All this time the Doctor created no sensation; even his witty oath, Död og Pinsel, no longer had any effect. But when Edwarda was speaking, he was always on the spot, correcting her language, embarrassing her with little shades of meaning, keeping her down with calm superiority.
She said:
“... until I go over the valley of death.”
And the Doctor asked:
“Over what?”
“The valley of death. Isn't that what it's called—the valley of death?”
“I have heard of the river of death. I presume that is what you mean.”
Later on, she talked of having something guarded like a ...
“Dragon,” put in the Doctor.
“Yes, like a dragon,” she answered.