"What about?"
"Well, about—you know—what we were talking of the other day: what Papa has known for sixty years ... and Uncle Daan...."
Aunt Stefanie made repeated deprecatory gestures with her hand:
"I don't know ... whether Aunt Thérèse knows anything about it. But what I do know, Ina, is that I mean to keep my soul clear of any sins and improper things that may have happened in the past. It's difficult enough to guard one's soul in the present. No, dear, no, I won't hear any more about it."
She closed her beady bird's-eyes and shook her nodding bird's-head until her little old-lady's toque jigged all askew on her scanty hair; and she almost stumbled over the cat before she hoisted herself upstairs, jolting and stamping, to go to her mother.
Ina remained irresolute. She went into the kitchen. Anna said:
"Oh, is that you, ma'am? Are you staying a little longer?"
"Yes ... Mrs. Ottilie may come presently.... I want to speak to her."
It was quite likely, thought Anna, that Mrs. Ottilie would come to-day. But, when there was a ring at the front-door, she looked out of the window and cried:
"No, it's Mr. Daan...."