“. . . Lying awake in my attic room, I hear a clock strike six downstairs. It was fairly light already and people were beginning to walk up and down the stairs. Over by the door, where my room was papered with old issues of Morgenbladet, I could see, very clearly, a notice from the Director of Lighthouses, and just left of it a fat, swelling ad for freshly baked bread by Fabian Olsen, Baker. As soon as I opened my eyes I started wondering, by force of habit, whether I had anything to look forwar...d to today. I had been somewhat hard up lately; my belongings had been taken to “Uncle” one after the other, I had grown nervous and irritable, and a couple of times I had even stayed in bed for a day or so because of dizziness. Every now and then, when I was lucky, I managed to get five kroner for an article from some newspaper or other. As it grew lighter and lighter I started reading the ads over by the door; I could even make out the thin, grinning letters concerning “Shrouds at Madam Andersen’s, main entrance to the right.”MoreLessRead More Read Less
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