Downstream by Sigfrid Siwertz — Read

The spring was early that year. Through the windows of the renaissance hall of the Hill villa the May sunshine flowed calm and warm as in June. But Hedvig, who was walking to and fro, had still retained her winter complexion. Yes, the tragic beauty of her face was deathly pale as she took a few steps to and fro like a prisoner measuring his cell. She seemed slimmer than ever and was still dressed in black. Like a dark shadow she glided to and fro, to and fro, across the wine-red sun-bespattered carpet.

Each time Hedvig came opposite to the little cupboard on the wall where the telephone was concealed, she stopped a moment with helplessly hanging hands and a restless, anxious expression. By and by she approached the spot more and more frequently and it seemed as if an irresistible force drew her to the telephone. Then she stretched out her hand to lift the receiver. But then a door banged in the region of the kitchen and at once she withdrew her hand as if it had been burnt, and she resumed her restless pacing. Then everything was quiet again and Hedvig was again at the telephone. In a low unsteady voice she asked for a number. After which her voice with a tremendous effort rose and became tense, haughty, commanding: