you here, he kept you here, now that I’m glad to have you here, he wants to drive you away. He’s always like that.” “Have you changed your opinion of me so greatly, then?” asked K. “In a couple of hours?” “I haven’t changed my opinion,” said the landlady more feebly again, “give me your hand. There, and now promise to be quite frank with me and I’ll be the same with you.” “Right,” said K. , “but who’s to begin first?” “I shall,” said the landlady. She did not give so much the impression of one who wanted to meet K. halfway, as of one who was eager to have the first word.
She drew a photograph from under the pillow and held it out to K. “Look at that portrait,” she said eagerly. To see it better K. stepped into the kitchen, but even there it was not easy to distinguish anything on the photograph, for it was faded with age, cracked in several places, crumpled and dirty. “It isn’t in very good condition,” said K. “Unluckily, no,” said the landlady, “when one carries a thing about with one for years it’s bound to be the case. But if you look at it carefully, you’ll be able to make everything out, you’ll see. But I can help you; tell me what you see, I