She let him make them, while her left
hand gently stroked and caressed his right hand which held hers; yet all
the time resolutely turning her face and her soft breast away, as though
she dreaded to be kissed, to lose will and identity in the mere delight
of his touch. And he felt, too, in some strange way, as though the blow
that had fallen upon her had placed her at a distance from him; not
disgraced--but consecrate.
"Will you please sit down and let us talk?" she said, after a moment,
withdrawing herself.
She pushed a chair forward, and sat down herself. The tears were in her
eyes, but she brushed them away unconsciously.
"If papa had told me!" she said, in a low voice--"if he had only told
me--before he died."
"It was out of love," said Marsham; "but yes--it would have been
wiser--kinder--to have spoken."
She started.
"Oh no--not that. But we might have sorrowed--together. And he was
always alone--he bore it all alone--even when he was dying."
"But you, dearest, shall not bear it alone!" cried Marsham, finding her
hand again and kissing it. "My first task shall be to comfort you--to
make you forget."
He thought she winced at the word "forget.
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