“Well, curse you, what about my letter?” he cried. “What will you give for my shares?”
Peter shrank more than ever, smaller and smaller until he was like a little grey mouse:
“Buy shares? Impossible! These are not the times ... I have no ready money.”
“Why the devil did you come here then?” Tord said brutally.
Dagmar went about tidying up with a fur coat on top of her chemise and her hair down:
“What a polite host!” she laughed.
“Yes, I suppose I’d better clear out at once,” whined Peter.
For once Tord said something sensible.
“All right, I will come in with you to talk to Stellan and Laura about the shares.”
Peter suddenly became very thoughtful. He sat down at a table and began to calculate in a small greasy notebook: