Also the needle in her fingers might have been intended to sew up
his shroud, so angry did it appear at the moment. But her teeth had
something almost savage about them. If he had seen them when she was
smiling, he would have thought them merely beautiful and rare, atoning
for her plain face and flat breast--not so flat as it had been; for since
the child had come into her life, her figure, strangely enough, had
rounded out, and lines never before seen in her contour appeared.
He braced himself for the contest he knew was at hand, and replied to
her. "My name is Jean Jacques Barbille. I was of the Manor Cartier, in
St. Saviour's parish, Quebec. The mother of the child Zoe, there, was
born at the Manor Cartier. I was her father. I am the grandfather of this
Zoe." He motioned towards the cradle.
Then, with an impulse he could not check and did not seek to check--why
should he? was not the child his own by every right?--he went to the
cradle and looked down at the tiny face on its white pillow. There could
be no mistake about it; here was the face of his lost Zoe, with
something, too, of Carmen, and also the forehead of the Barbilles. As
though the child knew, it opened its eyes wide-big, brown eyes like those
of Carmen Dolores.
"Ah, the beautiful, beloved thing!" he exclaimed in a low-voice, ere
Norah stepped between and almost pushed him back.
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