"You are
a funny man. Come in, then; but mind, you will be dusty with flour when
you leave."
"I will undertake that risk," he replied, with a seriousness not in tune
with the comedy of the situation.
Into the kitchen she led him. She was moved with curiosity. Why should
any man wish to see a woman knead bread?
"Sit there, Herr." And she pointed to a stool at the left of the table.
The sunlight came in through the window, and an aureola appeared above
her beautiful head. "Have you never seen a woman knead flour?"
"Not for many years," said Hans, thinking of his mother.
Gretchen deliberately rolled up her sleeves and began work.
There are three things which human growth never changes: the lines in
the hand, the shape of the ear, and scars. The head grows, and the
general features enlarge to their predestined mold, but these three
things remain. Upon Gretchen's left arm, otherwise perfection, there was
a white scar, rough and uneven, more like an ancient burn than anything
else. Grumbach's eyes rested upon the scar and became fixed.
"Where did you get that?" he asked. He spoke with a strange calm.
"The scar? I do not remember. Grandmother says that when I was little I
must have been burned."
"_Gott!_"
"What did you say, Herr?"
"Nothing.
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