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the others smile at the word, as if Tove were speaking
through him, but then the door opens and a maid enters
with more coffee, refills their cups, adds to their cognac
glasses; she’s young, moves lithely, like a herb in water,
never looks up, they don’t get to see her eyes properly,
those blue stones, and she doesn’t let it perturb her though
they all look, watch her as the fire works its way up their
stiff cigars, with a low hiss, but she’s glad to get out of
there. A fine piece of work, mutters Lárus; to say the least,
agrees Sigurður, while Þorvaldur says nothing, having
simply watched like the others, that was his praise, and
then Friðrik says, at first waving his hand as if to brush the
girl aside, her youth, the agitation that they all felt, dogs
have to be allowed to bark, then there’s less chance they’ll
bite. But Skúli hit the nail precisely on the head, albeit in
reverse; most people spend more than they have, as
witnessed clearly in the trading companies’ ledgers, far too
many die in debt, which is why we must keep a firm hand
on things, otherwise all of society will resemble the ledgers
of its people— full of nothing but debt. But never mind
Skúli, he’s no threat; it’s Geirþrúður we need to worry
about. Skúli hides nothing, is plain for all to see, but she’s
underhanded, shrewder, causes a stir, and is corruptive to
good morals, no less. You remember how she got her hands
on Kolbeinn’s share when he lost his vision, acquired a
substantial majority in one of the Village’s best ships by
inviting him to live with her? It doesn’t cost much to feed
blind wretches, wretches who also have plenty of their own
money; where’s it supposed to go when they breathe their