The Left-Handed God Read Online Free PDF

favorite author. The cat was forever bounding up to the tops of shelves and wardrobes, whence he would look down at them with a disdainful expression.
    “Bother!” muttered Augusta and sucked her bleeding finger. Thick darning needles hurt when rammed into the fleshy part of one’s forefinger. She resented her mother for leading this dull, sedentary existence when she was in perfectly good health. Augusta was young and active and did not want to spend her life sitting by the fire, mending stockings. Sunday church service was about the only outing she ever got. If only Papa had not died.
    She sighed, gathered up the sock and finished darning it. Then she let the wooden egg slip out and fall to the tiled floor. The crash sounded like a shot, and the egg rolled under the stove. Frau von Langsdorff’s head jerked up.
    “Wha‌—‌someone’s at the door. Go to the window and see. Dear me. I hope it’s nobody.”
    She meant nobody of consequence, and Augusta was about to tell her there had been no knock when there really was. She ran to the parlor to peer out through the front window, then went back to report, “It’s only Herr Seutter, Mama.”
    Her mother jumped up. “ Only Herr Seutter? A man who sits on the city council?” Her hands fluttered helplessly between her dress and her cap as she looked around the kitchen. “How do I look? Oh, dear, I wish there were a fire in the salon . What shall we do?” She patted her cap in a distracted manner.
    The salon was the parlor. Augusta saw no point in giving simple rooms French names. “He’ll have to come in here,” she said practically. “Maybe he won’t stay.”
    Her mother cast up her eyes. “How rude you are! We have little enough company, and Herr Seutter is an important man. It is kind of him to call on us. We must be pleasant.”
    The knock came again. Augusta sighed and turned to let their guest in.
    “Augusta!” wailed her mother. “Put away that basket of mending. Do you want him to think we live like common people? It’s bad enough we don’t have a girl to answer the door.”
    Augusta moved the basket into a corner.
    “And take off that apron.”
    Augusta removed the apron and dropped it into the basket.
    Her mother looked at her with a frown. “That dress is getting much too short. I can see your ankles.”
    It was also getting too tight across the chest, but Augusta only said, “Shorter skirts are quite the style, Mama.”
    The knocking was repeated.
    “Go! Hurry! What are you waiting for? The poor man will think he isn’t welcome.”
    Augusta opened the front door to a snowy street. Jakob Seutter, in a brown, fur-trimmed cloak and cocked hat, stood on the doorstep, looking every inch the substantial burgher. He raised the hat with a flourish. “Good morning, Fräulein Augusta,” he boomed. “I see you’re your usual beauteous self this fine day.”
    He was a large man. Bourgeois substantiality, no doubt. As if proud of his broad chest, he fancied bright, embroidered vests. Today’s was yellow silk sprinkled with blue forget-me-nots. Augusta quickly raised her eyes to his red face. “Good morning, Herr Seutter,” she said, suppressing a giggle. “I hope I see you well.”
    “Very well indeed,” he said with satisfaction. “I called to deliver my New Year’s wishes to your mother and your pretty self.” He made a sweeping gesture, revealing a small boy in the street below him. The child clutched a basket that seemed larger than he. “Come, Hanserl, don’t stand there like a dolt. Bring it in, bring it in.”
    The child was about eight or nine and looked blue with cold. Augusta stepped aside quickly, but Herr Seutter walked in first, cast a glance toward the parlor, saw it dim, empty, and cold, and said, “I thought you and your Mama would be in need of cheering up on New Year’s Day.”
    The boy managed to stagger up the steps. Augusta went to help him, but before she could, his half-frozen fingers slipped, and the basket