She peered over at the man she loved. He was sitting with his ankles crossed on top of the table with the photos of his three sisters-in-law, and he was reading the newspaper, from behind which blue pipe smoke rose. His chin came to a sharp point before merging into his neck – a sign of character and steadfastness. Yes, his chin did do that –

The gallery was endless. Outside the sun was shining. She was going to suggest to Asger that they go for a walk in the woods afterward, then they could lie on his jacket and look up into the fine, bright greenery until the late twilight coolness forced them closer, and he would warm her with his healthy young body and rid her of her strange anxiousness, and promise he would never take her to visit his mother again, or, at any rate, only on birthdays and similar occasions, when other people were there too. Actually, he could come over and help her out a little, instead of just retreating and sitting there. Suddenly she felt irritated at how he always made himself comfortable wherever he went, not because he enjoyed being there, but because of something else in his personality, something no one could penetrate, and which was always with him. At first she had thought it was only when he was with her that he had trouble pulling himself away, but even when they went to the movies it was a struggle for him to get up and leave when the film ended. He was aware of it. He said it was a kind of inertia.

‘And here is Aunt Agnes, whom I mentioned before. This was taken just before she was admitted for the first time.’

The young woman glanced from the mother to the picture and quickly back again. She didn’t see any difference.

‘She looks so much like you,’ she exclaimed.

The old woman nodded solemnly.

‘We do resemble one another quite a bit now, both in mind and body, but that hasn’t always been the case.’

She tottered over to the desk and fished out of a drawer an old faded photograph of a young girl, a very pretty young girl with a blond top knot and a narrow velvet band around her bare neck. Her forehead was high and broad, her eyes brown and slightly slanted, her mouth on the verge of a secretive smile.

‘This is Agnes at twenty-two.’

The young woman hesitantly took the picture in her hand and stared at it. Then she said into the air:

‘Incredible how she looks like – I mean, there is such a resemblance to –’