"Hans-Joachim, sleep," she added sharply to her son,
who tried to raise his head to interrupt with fresh doubts a
conversation grown thrilling. "That is indeed a misfortune. It is a
rash?"
"Oh, it's dreadful," said Priscilla, faintly.
"_Ach_, poor Fraeulein. When one is married, rashes no longer matter.
One's husband has to love one in spite of rashes. But for a Fraeulein
every spot is of importance. There is a young lady of my acquaintance
whose life-happiness was shipwrecked only by spots. She came out in
them at the wrong moment."
"Did she?" murmured Priscilla.
"You are going to a doctor?"
"Yes--that is, no--I've been."
"Ah, you have been to Kunitz to Dr. Kraus?"
"Y--es. I've been there."
"What does he say?"
"That I must always wear a veil."
"Because it looks so bad?"
"I suppose so."
There was a silence. Priscilla lay back in her corner exhausted, and
shut her eyes. The mother stared fixedly at her, one hand mechanically
stroking Hans-Joachim, the other holding him down.
"When I was a girl," said the mother, so suddenly that Priscilla
started, "I had a good deal of trouble with my skin.
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