He
turned at the noise of her entrance and seeing who it was gave a great
start. Then he rose slowly to his feet and confronted her. It was the
first time he had seen her since that Sunday when she cut him dead
before all the people, coming out of meeting. For a moment the two
stood motionless gazing at each other. Then she came quickly up to him
and laid her hand upon his arm. Her dark eyes were full of terrified
appeal.
"What are you going to do to my father?" she cried in poignant tones.
After a pause he repeated stammeringly, as if he had not quite taken
in the idea.
"Your father?"
"Yes, my father! What are you going to do to him?" she repeated more
insistently.
His vacant answer had been no affectation. Her beauty, her distress,
the touch of her hand on his arm, her warm breath on his cheek, her
face so near to his, left him capable in that moment of but one
thought, and that was that he loved her wildly, with a love which it
had been madness for him to think he could ever overcome or forget.
But it was not with soft and melting emotions, but rather in great
bitterness, that he owned the mastery of the passion which he had
tried so hard to throw off. He knew that if she despised him before,
she must hate and loathe him now.
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