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Updated: May 23, 2025
From what couldn't he escape? But Mrs. Tiralla leant over the bed so that the man could feel her breath on his cheek, and whispered in his ear, "Sh! be quiet!" Now she sees him being tormented in hell. She often sees him like that. "Röschen, my darling," she whispered softly, bending over the child, "leave that wicked man in hell, don't be frightened.
He had saved something, hidden something like a dog his bone. He would go to it now. And even if his father were to beat him afterwards and say, "Boy, why do you eat unripe fruit?" still, what was hidden behind the loose stone in the wall would taste good. Mr. Tiralla walked to the door; he had suddenly recovered the use of his limbs. He shuffled and staggered, but still he went on.
Tiralla in the carriage, fat and red as usual, and there was nothing in his face, neither pallor nor lines of suffering round his mouth, to betray that he had eaten mushrooms, poisonous mushrooms. Or had she not given him any? If only she had not oh, if only she had not! Böhnke came slowly across the broad village street, as though something were holding him back.
One man after the other had said good night, first the priest, then the gendarme, then the forester, then Mr. Schmielke. Jokisch, as a good neighbour, had stopped the longest with Mr. Tiralla.
Tiralla would crack his whip and look very elated. Let them envy him his wife. They did not know nobody knew that he many an evening had received such a vigorous blow on the chest from her, when he had attempted to approach her, as nobody would ever have given such a delicate-looking woman credit for.
"Get up," she said to Rosa coldly, as the child gently stroked her dress. "Get up. Why do you do that? You're soiling my dress." Rosa began to cry. "Why do you frighten her so?" exclaimed Mr. Tiralla reproachfully; he could not bear to hear his daughter cry. "Come here, my Röschen, my little lady-bird; leave your mother, she's in a bad humour to-day.
Tiralla so often turned away when the child had wanted to get on her lap and, with clumsy little fingers, stroke her cheek. However, Mrs. Tiralla was in a more affectionate mood to-night. The little girl looked up in astonishment when she felt a soft hand on her head; but then she clung to her mother, and her dull eyes gleamed with joy and gratitude. Mr.
Could angels scold as well? Alas, she must have done something very bad, must have been a very good-for-nothing girl if the angel scolded her. She crept back into her corner sobbing in a subdued fashion. "That's right, be angry, it suits you," said Mr. Tiralla, laughing. The father rose from the bench when he heard the crack of Jendrek's whip, as the carriage drove up to the front door.
And still every time a glass was put on the table with more noise than usual Mr. Tiralla had hastily put his finger to his lips, "Sh!" For the schoolmaster was his friend, and it did him good to have such a friend. Did little Böhnke know what a mouse felt like when it was being enticed into a trap with bacon? Oh, his wife was kind to him now, she was so bright, and smiled the whole day long.
Oh, dear, there stood her mistress at the fireplace, her hair beautifully done and as neat as ever. Had she even made the coffee? "The coffee is ready; you're so late," said Mrs. Tiralla. But she did not scold the servant for sleeping too long, she merely handed her the tray with the enormous coffee-cup on. "There, carry it in to him. I've already put sugar in it."
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