Smith
remarked suddenly to his daughter after a long period of brooding:
"A will is nothing. One tears it up. One makes another." Then after
reflecting for a minute he added unemotionally:
"One tells lies about it."
Flora, patient, steeled against every hurt and every disgust to the point
of wondering at herself, said: "You push your dislike of--of--Roderick
too far, papa. You have no regard for me. You hurt me."
He, as ever inexpressive to the point of terrifying her sometimes by the
contrast of his placidity and his words, turned away from her a pair of
faded eyes.
"I wonder how far your dislike goes," he began. "His very name sticks in
your throat. I've noticed it. It hurts me. What do you think of that?
You might remember that you are not the only person that's hurt by your
folly, by your hastiness, by your recklessness." He brought back his
eyes to her face. "And the very day before they were going to let me
out." His feeble voice failed him altogether, the narrow compressed lips
only trembling for a time before he added with that extraordinary
equanimity of tone, "I call it sinful.
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