It voices that which for centuries has lain hidden in the
hearts of all women! Read it, and then tell me if you think that our
union has been a true marriage. Your Gurli."
His presentiment of evil had not deceived him. The captain was beside
himself; he could not understand what had happened to his wife. It was
worse than religious hypocrisy.
He tore off the wrapper and read on the title page of a book in a
paper cover: _Et Dukkehjem af Henrik Ibsen_. A Doll's House? Well,
and--? His home had been a charming doll's house; his wife had been
his little doll and he had been her big doll. They had danced along
the stony path of life and had been happy. What more did they want?
What was wrong? He must read the book at once and find out.
He finished it in three hours. His brain reeled. How did it concern
him and his wife? Had they forged bills? No! Hadn't they loved one
another? Of course they had!
He locked himself into his cabin and read the book a second time; he
underlined passages in red and blue, and when the dawn broke, he took
"A well-meant little ablative on the play _A Doll's House_, written by
the old Pal on board the Vanadis in the Atlantic off Bordeaux. (Lat. 45
Long. 16 .)
"1. She married him because he was in love with her and that was a
deuced clever thing to do.
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