The morning light came slowly, almost lazily. One ring of the bell followed another. Marie kept her purse open in her hand the whole time.
“Oh, what miserable days these are, with all those beggars at the door.” She did not even ask who was there whenever Trientje came in for more small coins.
Then, after another vigorous pull at the bell, heavy footsteps creaked along the hallway. The sitting-room door opened, and there stood Stasius, the rural constable, in his grey uniform trimmed with green piping, the tricolour cockade on his shako. His sabre clattered against the draught screen.