But of these things we knew nothing as the door was
opened and Alma Pflugel and I gazed curiously at one
another. Surprise was writ large on her honest face as
I disclosed my errand. It was plain that the ways of
newspaper reporters were foreign to the life of this
plain German woman, but she bade me enter with a sweet
graciousness of manner.
Wondering, but silent, she led the way down the dim
narrow hallway to the sitting-room beyond. And there I
saw that Norberg had known whereof he spoke.
A stout, red-faced stove glowed cheerfully in one
corner of the room. Back of the stove a sleepy cat
opened one indolent eye, yawned shamelessly, and rose to
investigate, as is the way of cats. The windows were
aglow with the sturdy potted plants that flower-loving
German women coax into bloom. The low-ceilinged room
twinkled and shone as the polished surfaces of tables and
chairs reflected the rosy glow from the plethoric stove.
I sank into the depths of a huge rocker that must have
been built for Grosspapa Pflugel's generous curves. Alma
Pflugel, in a chair opposite, politely waited for this
new process of interviewing to begin, but relaxed in the
embrace of that great armchair I suddenly realized that
I was very tired and hungry, and talk-weary, and that
here; was a great peace.
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