Wanderers

was Frøken Elisabeth and no other I was in love with; she was not full of changing humours, and was just as pretty as the other—ay, a thousand times prettier. I would go and take work at her father’s place....

I, too, he suggests, would be better advised to give over sighing for ladies of high degree, and go back to my own rank and station.

And in the morning, before the sun was up, and the evening, after it had gone, there was always a shiny drop hanging from the tip of his nose.

And then, again, he would go all through the week, from Sunday to Sunday, without a wash.