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- Стр. 51/143
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I
repeat
my
question
,
and
advance
a
little
farther
.
"
The
editor
has
not
come
yet
!
"
said
"
Scissors
"
at
length
,
without
looking
up
.
How
soon
would
he
come
?
"
Could
n't
say
--
could
n't
say
at
all
!
"
How
long
would
the
office
be
open
?
To
this
I
received
no
answer
,
so
I
was
forced
to
leave
.
"
Scissors
"
had
not
once
looked
up
at
me
during
all
this
scene
;
he
had
heard
my
voice
,
and
recognized
me
by
it
.
You
are
in
such
bad
odour
here
,
thought
I
,
that
he
does
n't
even
take
the
trouble
to
answer
you
.
I
wonder
if
that
is
an
order
of
the
editor
's
.
I
had
,
'
tis
true
enough
,
right
from
the
day
my
celebrated
story
was
accepted
for
ten
shillings
,
overwhelmed
him
with
work
,
rushed
to
his
door
nearly
every
day
with
unsuitable
things
that
he
was
obliged
to
peruse
only
to
return
them
to
me
.
Perhaps
he
wished
to
put
an
end
to
this
--
take
stringent
measures
...
.
I
took
the
road
to
Homandsbyen
.
Hans
Pauli
Pettersen
was
a
peasant-farmer
's
son
,
a
student
,
living
in
the
attic
of
a
five-storeyed
house
;
therefore
,
Hans
Pauli
Pettersen
was
a
poor
man
.
But
if
he
had
a
shilling
he
would
n't
stint
it
.
I
would
get
it
just
as
sure
as
if
I
already
held
it
in
my
hand
.
And
I
rejoiced
the
whole
time
,
as
I
went
,
over
the
shilling
,
and
felt
confident
I
would
get
it
.
When
I
got
to
the
street
door
it
was
closed
and
I
had
to
ring
.
"
I
want
to
see
Student
Pettersen
,
"
I
said
,
and
was
about
to
step
inside
.
"
I
know
his
room
.
"
"
Student
Pettersen
,
"
repeats
the
girl
.
"
Was
it
he
who
had
the
attic
?
"
He
had
moved
.
