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On the morning of his departure he had sat on the edge of his bed, the sunlight streaming through the early mist, the house-martens scratching the back of the ceiling over his head as they scrambled out from the roof for their day's gnat-chasing, the thrushes cracking snails on the garden stones outside with the noisiness of little smiths at work on little anvils.
The roof was not up too much either; the rats and house-martens had worked havoc in it, so that it was like a sieve, and the snow drifted into the loft. It was all bad. Every day Sörine tried to rouse Lars Peter to do something. But what could he do? "I can't work harder than I do, and steal I won't," said he. "What do the others do, who live in a pretty and comfortable house?"
"O-o-oh, dear! how funny!" giggled Frieda, and Eugene began slowly rowing his boat lakeward. "Be sure you bring me a nice fish," she called. "Be sure you're here to get it when I come back," he answered. He saw her with the lattice of spring leaves behind her, the old house showing pleasantly on its rise of ground, some house-martens turning in the morning sky. "What a lovely girl," he thought.
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