Flora de
Barral's voice faltered. He bent on her that well-remembered glance in
which she had never read anything as a child, except the consciousness of
her existence. And that was enough for a child who had never known
demonstrative affection. But she had lived a life so starved of all
feeling that this was no longer enough for her. What was the good of
telling him the story of all these miseries now past and gone, of all
those bewildering difficulties and humiliations? What she must tell him
was difficult enough to say. She approached it by remarking cheerfully:
"You haven't even asked me where I am taking you." He started like a
somnambulist awakened suddenly, and there was now some meaning in his
stare; a sort of alarmed speculation. He opened his mouth slowly. Flora
struck in with forced gaiety. "You would never, guess."
He waited, still more startled and suspicious. "Guess! Why don't you
tell me?"
He uncrossed his arms and leaned forward towards her. She got hold of
one of his hands. "You must know first . . . " She paused, made an
effort: "I am married, papa.
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