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Updated: May 31, 2025
Now Pelle was furious; the leader could go to hell! He gave the fellow a few sound boxes on the ear, and asked him which he would rather do hold his mouth or take some more? Morten appeared in the doorway this had happened in the doorway of the house in which he worked. "This won't do!" he whispered, and he drew Pelle away with him. Pelle could make no reply; he threw himself on Morten's bed.
There was Morten's new hat fresh from Paris, and the well-known broad brim of Dean Sparre. There were hats of the old chimney-pot shape, with scarcely any brim at all, while others had brims which hung over almost like the roof of a Swiss cottage. Some hats had a red tinge when they came into the glare of the sunshine, while others were brushed as smooth as velvet.
You have taken a great responsibility on yourself, Pelle. Look, how blindly they follow you at the sight of your bare face, I'm tempted to say. For I'm not myself quite sure that you give enough of yourself. There is blood on your hands but is any of it your own blood?" Pelle sat there heavily pondering; Morten's words always forced his thoughts to follow paths they had never before known.
Your father is as much respected as Morten's." "Morten won't be a son-in-law, either, if his master has no daughter," Jens muttered. "No. But he might have had a daughter, hey? But there we've got an answer. You don't reflect. Morten, he's got something there!" He touched his forehead. "Then you shouldn't have hit me on the head," retorted Jens sulkily. "On the head well!
He worked independently; there was scarcely his match in individual cases of need or injustice; and he was always laboring to make people think for themselves. And they loved him. They looked up to Pelle and the rest, and made way for them with shining eyes; but they smilingly put themselves in Morten's way. They wanted to press his hand he could scarcely make his way to the speaker's platform.
Your father is as much respected as Morten's." "Morten won't be a son-in-law, either, if his master has no daughter," Jens muttered. "No. But he might have had a daughter, hey? But there we've got an answer. You don't reflect. Morten, he's got something there!" He touched his forehead. "Then you shouldn't have hit me on the head," retorted Jens sulkily. "On the head well!
The Amager farmers fatten their swine there, and the sanitary commission talks about forbidding it; but no one has compassion on the Copenhagen poor." Pelle shuddered. There was something demoniacal in Morten's hideous knowledge he knew more of the "Ark" than Pelle himself. "Have you, too, been down in that loathsome rubbish-store?" he asked, "or how do you know all this?"
"You needn't waste anything on me; I've had no children by you." She was trembling with cold, but remained obstinately standing, and answered Morten's remonstrances with a torrent of abusive epithets. At last he gave it up and sat down wearily. The two men sat and looked at her in silence.
Pelle took down some of Morten's own works, and turned over their leaves with interest. He seemed to hear Morten's earnest voice behind the printed words. He would begin to read him now! Morten came in. "You're not going, are you?" he asked, drawing his hand across his forehead. "Do stay a little while and we'll have a good talk. You can't think how I've missed you!" He looked tired.
"Tell me about the house out there and Boy Comfort," she said, making room for him on the edge of the bed. "It's so tiresome here, and Mr. Morten's so serious." And she threw a glance of defiance at him. "Is he?" said Pelle. "That must be because he writes books." "No, but I must keep up a little dignity," said Morten, assuming a funny, schoolmasterish expression.
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