They soughed
so wondrously in the summer evenings, and the sea beneath their
branches told such enthralling stories. Those grand old woods, the
like of which were hardly to be found in impoverished Norway, were
far dearer to her than was her husband. Her imagination had been
taken captive by the trees, and thus Harald Kaas had taken HER.
The estate, the climate, the exclusive possession of her part of
the house: this was the bait which she had chosen. Harald Kaas was
only a kind of Puck who had to be taken along with it. But it is
doubtful whether this conjecture was any nearer the truth. No one
ever really knew. She was not one of those whom it is easy to
catechise.
Every one wearies at last of trying to solve even the most
interesting of enigmas. No one could tolerate the sound of her
name when, four months after her marriage, she was seen in a stall
at the Christiania Theatre just as in old days, though looking
perhaps a little paler. Every opera-glass was levelled at her. She
wore a light, almost white, dress, cut square as usual. She did
not hide her face behind her fan. She looked about her with her
wondering eyes, as though she was quite unconscious that there
were other people in the theatre or that any one could be looking
at her.
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