“How are you, father?” Peter said anxiously.
The old man’s voice was as rusty as if it had not been used for years:
“Been running,” he muttered pointing at the damp stains.
“But I asked how you were, father.”
Hedvig occupied the room next door and it was she who nursed the old man. She insisted on doing it. Now her father pointed with his thumb to her room.
“Up?” he wondered anxiously.
“But I wanted to know how you felt, father?”
“Must not wash me,” whined Oskar Selamb. “Cold water!—don’t wash me...!”
Then Hedvig suddenly stood in the door. She was dressed in a torn old dressing gown. Her black hair was brushed tight over the temples and hung over her shoulders in a long shining plait, which looked as if it had been plaited by hard, mean fingers. She was still pale with a strange, deathly pallor, and her dark eyes were awake, as intensely awake as if the sweet drops of sleep had never been poured into them.
“What’s the matter now?”