“The will ... clear ... all clear....”
Stellan bent still lower. It sounded as if he had wanted to push each word like a probe into the invalid’s conscience:
“We shall oppose the will ... there will be a lawsuit ... do you hear, a lawsuit.”
“I shall ... win ... win....”
“You will be declared of unsound mind. The will will be declared null.”
“No ... I shall win ... win....”
And it sounded as if a secret malicious satisfaction irresistibly overcame his cramp and pain. Peter the Boss will bring an action, Peter the Boss will win. What the deuce does it matter then if he happens to be dead.
Laura had already fled. Stellan followed slowly, after having telephoned for the doctor. Hedvig came last. In the door she turned, stared at her dying brother and mumbled again obstinately, like a monomaniac:
“You should never have taken up with that woman, Peter. You should never have taken up with that woman....”
But Bernhard had sunk down on a chair by the bed, pale, sick, red-eyed. In his bold restless eyes there appeared something like tears. Youth, even neglected and criminal youth, has always a softer fibre. The real blindness, cruelty, and sterility lies on the other side of the midday line.