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There was something in the glance the boy gave her, as he looked her full in the face, that kept her standing. "I know, my dear," she said good-naturedly, "it's not your fault. I know that." "She won't let me," he muttered between his teeth, cracking his whip with a loud noise. "Why not?" inquired the woman. "Hasn't she said why you're not to play with Artur and Frida any more?
And then he pretended not to see her, and stood flicking the whip he held in his hand. "Are you never coming to see us again?" she went on. "Have you been having a fight with Artur or been quarrelling with Frida? No, it can't be that, as they've been looking out for you so long. I suppose your mother won't let you, is that it? Hm, we're not good enough any more, I suppose? Of course not.
"I could go with you some time." "Oh, you!" She laughed at him. "You mayn't, you know." "No." He bowed his head. "Come, don't look so glum," she said encouragingly, stroking his chin with her fore-finger, and disclosing a hole in her shabby kid glove. "You go to college, you see. Artur is to be apprenticed too, next autumn. Mother thinks to a hairdresser.
Bedford consented, but left the city before the execution. Her own king made no effort to save her, though, many years later, he caused enquiries to be made, established her innocence, ennobled her family, and freed her village from taxation. But though Joan was gone, her work lasted. The Constable, Artur of Richmond, the Count of Dunois, and other brave leaders, continued to attack the English.
Down! down knelt the assembled throng! Our mind had been previously attuned to melancholy; it now reeled under its oppression. We looked around with tearful eye. Old Theodoric of the Goths seemed to frown from his pedestal. We turned to the statue against which we had leant. It was that of a youthful and sinewy warrior. We read its inscription. Artur, Konig Von England
Artur, a feeble little creature, had not taken part in the fight, but he stood with his hands in his pockets giving advice in a screeching voice to the two who fought in silence. "Give him it hard, Flebbe. Your fist under his nose hard." "On with you, Wolfgang. Settle him. Show him what you can do." Frida hopped from one leg to the other, laughing, her fair plait dancing on her back.
She made her curtsey as she always did, quickly and pertly like a water wagtail bobbing up and down, but her high girl's voice did not sound so clear to-day; the tone was more subdued, almost depressed. And she did not laugh. Artur copied his sister, and Hans Flebbe copied the girl too, for he always considered all she did worthy of imitation.
She stammered with embarrassment: "No, Frida isn't at home yet and Artur isn't either and father is up in the lodge but if you will put up with my company until until they come" she pushed him a chair with a good deal of noise. He drew his chair close to the table at which she had been sewing. Now he was sitting where he used to sit.
Wolfgang was developing quickly, especially physically. It was not that he was growing so tall, but he was getting broader, becoming robust, with a strong neck. When he threw snowballs with the Lämkes outside the door he looked older than Artur, who was of the same age, even older than Frida. He was differently fed from these children.
There was Hans Flebbe his father was coachman at the banker's, who owned the splendid villa on the other side of the road and lived in Bellevuestrasse in Berlin in the winter and there were also Artur and Frida. But their father was only porter in a villa that was let out to different families. As soon as these three came home from school, they would stand outside the Schliebens' villa.
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