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Strindberg, August, 1849-1912

"Married"

Didn't he
look rather annoyed yesterday when she met him before lunch? And--after
all--if he had to attend a business meeting to-night, there was no
necessity for him to be present at the banquet.
It was half-past ten when her musing had reached this point. She was
surprised that she hadn't thought of these things before. She relapsed
into her dark mood and the dismal thoughts again passed through her
mind, one by one. But now reinforcements had arrived. He never talked
to her now! He never sang to her, never opened the piano! He had told
her a lie when he had said that he couldn't do without his afternoon
nap, for he was reading French novels all the time.
He had told her a lie!
It was only half-past eleven. The silence was oppressive. She opened
the window and looked out into the street. Two men were standing down
below, bargaining with two women. That was men's way! If he should
ever do anything like that! She should drown herself if he did.
She shut the window and lighted the chandelier in the bedroom. "One
ought to be able to see what one is about," he had once said to her on
a certain occasion.--Everything was still so bright and new! The green
coverlet looked like a mown lawn, and the little pillows reminded her
of two white kittens curled up on the grass.


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