I should certainly get a
penny for them; tomorrow I might raise another some place or other, and
Thursday I might be paid for my newspaper article. I should just see it
would come out all right. To think that I could really go and forget the
buttons. I took them out of my pocket, and inspected them as I walked on
again. My eyes grew dazed with joy. I did not see the street; I simply
went on. Didn't I know exactly the big pawn-shop--my refuge in the dark
evenings, with my blood-sucking friend? One by one my possessions had
vanished there--my little things from home--my last book. I liked to go
there on auction days, to look on, and rejoice each time my books seemed
likely to fall into good hands. Magelsen, the actor, had my watch; I was
almost proud of that. A diary, in which I had written my first small
poetical attempt, had been bought by an acquaintance, and my topcoat had
found a haven with a photographer, to be used in the studio. So there was
no cause to grumble about any of them. I held my buttons ready in my hand;
"Uncle" is sitting at his desk, writing. "I am not in a hurry," I say,
afraid of disturbing him, and making him impatient at my application. My
voice sounded so curiously hollow I hardly recognized it again, and my
heart beat like a sledge-hammer.
He came smilingly over to me, as was his wont, laid both his hands flat on
the counter, and looked at my face without saying anything.
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