The German stood contemplating them with much satisfaction. He
had almost forgotten his sorrow at leaving in his pleasure at preparing.
Suddenly he started; an expression of intense pain passed over his face.
He drew back his left arm quickly, and then pressed his right hand upon his
breast.
"Ah, the sudden pang again," he said.
His face was white, but it quickly regained its colour. Then the old man
busied himself in putting everything right.
"I will leave it neat. They shall not say I did not leave it neat," he
said. Even the little bags of seeds on the mantelpiece he put in rows and
dusted. Then he undressed and got into bed. Under his pillow was a little
storybook. He drew it forth. To the old German a story was no story. Its
events were as real and as important to himself as the matters of his own
life.
He could not go away without knowing whether that wicked earl relented and
whether the baron married Emilina. So he adjusted his spectacles and began
to read. Occasionally, as his feelings became too strongly moved, he
ejaculated: "Ah, I thought so! That was a rogue! I saw it before! I
knew it from the beginning!" More than half an hour had passed when he
looked up to the silver watch at the top of his bed.
"The march is long tomorrow; this will not do," he said, taking off his
spectacles and putting them carefully into the book to mark the place.
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