But there's some that never get over it."
"Fruen seems to be taking it easy enough," said I, still trying him.
"How can we tell? She's been unlike herself, to my mind, ever since she's
been back," he answered. "She's got to live, of course, but she's lost all
harmony, perhaps. I don't know much about it, but harmony, that's what I
mean. Oh yes, she can eat and laugh and sleep, no doubt, but ... I
followed one such to the grave, but now...."
And at that I was no longer cold and wise, but foolish and ashamed, and
only said:
"So it was that? She died, then?"
"Yes. She wished it so," said Nils. And then suddenly: "Well, you and Lars
get on with the ploughing. We ought soon to be through with things now."
And we went each our separate way.
I thought to myself: a sister of his, perhaps, that had gone wrong, and
he'd been home and followed her to the grave. _Herregud!_ there are
some that never get over it; it shakes them to their foundations; a
revolution. All depends on whether they're coarse enough.
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