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And he had said "Good evening" to her, and had asked her with a merry laugh, "Who's your sweetheart, my girl?" Then she had had to laugh too, laugh so that the cow had grown restive and had knocked the pail, which she was holding between her knees, with its hind legs, so that the milk had been upset, the stool had fallen, and she with it. Mrs. Tiralla was kneeling in the confessional.
What did that horrid fellow mean by always coming back? Böhnke quite forgot that this house to which he came regularly every Sunday and very often besides, belonged to Mr. Tiralla, and that the latter invariably received him with a loud welcome and ordered the best they had to be served up in his honour. But the farmer's presence always inconvenienced him, and especially to-day. Mrs.
Tiralla hanging from the hook in the centre beam, which had once been destined to carry a chandelier, close to the table with bottles and glasses. The man had made a noose of his handkerchief; the ceiling was low and his toes almost touched the chair, but still he was dangling. "O God!" She uttered a heartrending scream and sprang forward.
Tiralla," he said, "invoking divine help is certainly h'm" he cleared his throat, those wide-open, staring eyes made him quite confused "divine help is certainly the chief thing, but human help is not to be dispensed with. Your husband seems very ill, really dangerously ill, why won't you have a doctor? You must absolutely send for one."
"Sh!" Mrs. Tiralla raised her head. "Sh! now, now! Do you hear?" "Oh, my poor father!" sighed Rosa. It sounded as though she were going to cry; there was something unspeakably touching in her plaintive voice. "My poor father, what are they doing to you? You can't escape, alas, alas!" The child's low voice shook with fear, and she threw herself about on the bed with a convulsive movement.
The priest had said a few kind words to him about his daughter, when he came to the inn for a short time after his supper; she was an excellent child, a pure soul with whom God was well pleased. But Mr. Tiralla had only smiled feebly. He had sat staring into his glass with both elbows on the table, and his red head buried in his hands, without saying a word. He had sat like that for hours.
The farmer was already getting on in years when he married her, and was a widower into the bargain with a big son. "That couldn't have been an easy matter either for the little thing," said those who were friendly towards Mrs. Tiralla. But she had behaved very well; anyhow, Mr.
But she controlled herself; she must not be angry, it was better to win him with kindness. So she said in a low, dreamy whisper, as though she were speaking to herself: "I was still a child when I wanted to go into a convent. I was forced to marry Mr. Tiralla. Oh!" She raised her hands with a deep sigh, and clasped them together and pressed them to her pale cheek as though in pain.
Could even little Jadwiga Hähnel, with the freckles, the rich mill-owner's only unmarried daughter, or the fair Marianna Rózycki, the butcher's daughter, who, after the first glass of beer, always fell violently in love with her partner, could they be compared with Sophia Tiralla?
He pressed his hat further down on his forehead and shuffled along a little more rapidly. Marianna should bring him something at once to his room. He would lock himself in; he had not had his daily quantity yet, those confounded fellows had disturbed him. He still felt very out of sorts. "Mr. Tiralla! Mr. Tiralla!" shouted somebody behind him. He did not hear. Mr.
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