“Did you ever feel scared and—and sort of—scared when you thought about marry, Mrs. Pool?”
Maurtje Pool’s hands were in a great batch of bread dough which she pummelled and slapped and kneaded vigorously. She shook out a handful of flour on the baking board while she held the dough mass in the other hand, then plumped it down and again began to knead, both hands doubled into fists.
She laughed a short little laugh. “I ran away.”
“You did! You mean you really ran—but why? Didn’t you lo—like Klaas?”
Maartje Pool kneaded briskly, the colour high in her cheeks, what with the vigorous pummelling and rolling, and something else that made her look strangely young for the moment—girlish, almost. “Sure I liked him. I liked him.”
“But you ran away?”
“Not far. I came back. Nobody ever knew I ran, even. But I ran. I knew.”
“Why did you come back?”
Maartje elucidated her philosophy without being in the least aware that it could be called by any such high-sounding name. “You can’t run away far enough. Except you stop living you can’t run away from life.”
The girlish look had fled. She was world-old. Her strong arms ceased their pounding and thumping for a moment. On the steps just outside Klaas and Jakob were scanning the weekly reports preparatory to going into the city late that afternoon.
