Something tall was over there in the darkness, by the open
door. She heard a sigh, and called out, frightened:
"Is that you, Gustav?"
He spoke some words that she could not understand. Shutting the window
quickly, she went toward him. Light from the hall lit up one side of his
face and figure. He was pale; his eyes shone strangely; his sleeve was
all white. He said thickly:
"Little ghost!" and then some words that must be Swedish. It was the
first time Gyp had ever come to close quarters with drunkenness. And her
thought was simply: 'How awful if anybody were to see--how awful!' She
made a rush to get into the hall and lock the door leading to the back
regions, but he caught her frock, ripping the lace from her neck, and
his entangled fingers clutched her shoulder. She stopped dead, fearing
to make a noise or pull him over, and his other hand clutched her other
shoulder, so that he stood steadying himself by her. Why was she not
shocked, smitten to the ground with grief and shame and rage? She only
felt: "What am I to do? How get him upstairs without anyone knowing?"
And she looked up into his face--it seemed to her so pathetic with its
shining eyes and its staring whiteness that she could have burst into
tears. She said gently:
"Gustav, it's all right. Lean on me; we'll go up."
His hands, that seemed to have no power or purpose, touched her cheeks,
mechanically caressing.
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