The two or three people who were still to be seen in the streets looked radiantly happy; in the cemetery a man was still trundling a wheelbarrow, singing softly. Otherwise, everything was so quiet that nothing could be heard except this song. From the elevation by the doctor’s house, the town looked like a weird, splayed giant insect, a fabulous creature that had thrown itself flat on its belly, extending arms and horns and feelers in all directions; only here and there did it move a joint or withdraw a claw—such as down by the seaside, where a tiny steam yawl glided soundlessly along the bay, leaving a furrow in the black water. The smoke from Nagel’s cigar rose in blue swirls. Already taking in the fragrance of the grass and the woods, he was seized with a keen sense of contentment, a special, intense joy that made his eyes water and nearly took his breath away. He was walking beside Dagny, who hadn’t yet spoken. After passing the cemetery, he had uttered a few words of praise for the Stenersens, but she hadn’t answered.
