She gave a start as if he had struck her and ran in. But Peter stepped noiselessly up to the open window. There was light inside and he heard the sound of chairs being moved, giggles and whispering. But it was impossible to see anything. He carefully pushed aside the blind a little with a pencil.
Between a box in the window and the corner of a yellow wardrobe he could catch a glimpse over the end of the bed of some curls of brown hair and a big, dark hand that pressed against something soft and white.
Peter wanted to lift the blind higher but then a bottle on the window-sill tipped over and an arm was stretched out and put out the lamp.
He ran away as if possessed.
Now he lies stretched out on his bed, staring into the darkness. He lies as still as a terrified insect feigning death.
Fancy that it was Frida—the Frida who brought in his shoes and clothes in the morning!
Hitherto when Peter had looked at the girl he felt a certain uneasiness in her presence—an uneasiness which found expression chiefly in giggles and rudeness. But nothing in the world would have induced him to touch her.
But Brundin dared! For him nothing was forbidden and nothing dangerous. He did everything he liked.
By contrast with his own helplessness Brundin became a monster of power and impudence.
The darkness became oppressive round the poor boy, he suddenly felt the girl in his inmost being, in the very marrow of his bone. But not her alone, that was the horror of it! This man whom he dreaded, his pet horror was also there. His feelings were a strange mixture of shame, lust, fear, powerlessness, loneliness and grief. The very springs of life were diverted and unclean from the beginning. Even his first dreams of awakening were sullied by anxiety, and by cowardly, curious hate.