“Kirre,” she mumbled, “darling little Kirre....”
The kitten was Tord’s fate, it broke for a moment the spell of his dumbness:
“What did you throw down?” he asked suddenly.
She carefully put the kitten back again and answered without looking at him, straight into the chilly darkness, but in a tone of triumph and determination:
“It was the key.”
“What key?”
“To the studio, of course. Beastly, disgusting creature! Now that’s done with at last!”
And then came her story, disingenuous, straightforward, unblushing, and with a strong appeal. She had been living with a sculptor who had recently returned from Paris. She had been with him the whole winter. Oh, how she had spoilt the beast! Cooked his food and been his model all the day. She was posing as the young witch. “And everybody said I was a splendid witch,” she exclaimed, whilst an angry little smile flashed beneath the dripping brim of her hat. But what had this beast of a sculptor done when his lump of clay was ready? He had gone to an uncle in Kalmar to get some money. He would be back in a few days, he said. But no, not a sign of life for a fortnight. She had been sitting there cold and starving in company with the witch under her damp cover. But now that was over. Now she had stuck a knife and fork into the witch’s hands and an empty breadbasket on her head and the sculptor’s old pipe in her mouth. And now she had left and only taken Kirre with her. And down there lay the key and it was impossible to find it again.
“So now you will have to get food for me and the cat and a roof over our heads,” she said quickly to Tord.
Tord asked for nothing better. For once he did not feel anxious or suspicious. She seemed to him like a hunted animal. She was like the fox he had freed from the trap and taken home.