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Peer.
Is your psalm-book in your kerchief?
Where's the gold-mane on your shoulders?
Do you glance adown your apron?
Do you hold your mother's skirt-fold?
Speak!
Ingrid.
No, but
Peer.
Went you to the Pastor[1]
This last spring-tide?
Ingrid.
No, but Peer
Peer.
Is there shyness in your glances?
When I beg, can you deny?
Ingrid.
Heaven! I think his wits are going.
Peer.
Does your presence sanctify?[2]
Speak!
Ingrid.
No, but
Peer.
What's all the rest then?
[Going.