The unexpected had crumpled him up. She regarded him
perplexed, pitying, a little disillusioned, and nodded at him gravely:
Yes. Married. What she did not like was to see him smile in a manner
far from encouraging to the devotion of a daughter. There was something
unintentionally savage in it. Old de Barral could not quite command his
muscles, as yet. But he had recovered command of his gentle voice.
"You were just saying that in this wide world there we were, only you and
I, to stick to each other."
She was dimly aware of the scathing intention lurking in these soft low
tones, in these words which appealed to her poignantly. She defended
herself. Never, never for a single moment had she ceased to think of
him. Neither did he cease to think of her, he said, with as much
sinister emphasis as he was capable of.
"But, papa," she cried, "I haven't been shut up like you." She didn't
mind speaking of it because he was innocent. He hadn't been understood.
It was a misfortune of the most cruel kind but no more disgraceful than
an illness, a maiming accident or some other visitation of blind fate.
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