“No doubt, Rine, because one of the children’s dead.”
“Dead?”
“Yes, Rine.”
“Oh, how sad! Is she crying?”
“Yes, she’s crying. She’s crying, Rine, about Gertrude.”
“About whom?”
“About Gertrude. About Ger-tru-ude!” Auntie Rine began to scream. “She’s dead, Rine.”
“Is she dead?”
“Yes, the poor little thing died at Buitenzorg.”
“Oh, how sad! Is Marie still crying, Tine?”
“Yes, she’s still crying, Rine.”
“But then who’s that one, Tine?”
“Who, Rine?”
“That one, the girl standing beside her? She’s crying, she’s crying too!”
“Beside her?”
“Yes, can’t you see? She’s crying too!”
“Yes, yes!” screamed Tine, quite lucid now. “I know her, Rine, I know her quite well, quite well.”
“Then who is it? Is it Bertha?”
“No, Rine!” Auntie Tine screamed, gradually more and more shrilly, always thinking that she was whispering in her deaf sister’s ear. “It’s not Bertha. It’s not Bertha. But I know her, I know her.”
“Then who is she?” Auntie Rine screamed, in her turn.
“I’ll tell you who she is. I’ll tell you who she is. It’s Constance!” yelled Auntie Rine.
