After Morris had kissed her, the
last time he was with her, as a ripe assurance of his devotion, she
begged him to go away, to leave her alone, to let her think. Morris
went away, taking another kiss first. But Catherine's meditations
had lacked a certain coherence. She felt his kisses on her lips and
on her cheeks for a long time afterwards; the sensation was rather an
obstacle than an aid to reflexion. She would have liked to see her
situation all clearly before her, to make up her mind what she should
do if, as she feared, her father should tell her that he disapproved
of Morris Townsend. But all that she could see with any vividness
was that it was terribly strange that anyone should disapprove of
him; that there must in that case be some mistake, some mystery,
which in a little while would be set at rest. She put off deciding
and choosing; before the vision of a conflict with her father she
dropped her eyes and sat motionless, holding her breath and waiting.
It made her heart beat, it was intensely painful. When Morris kissed
her and said these things--that also made her heart beat; but this
was worse, and it frightened her. Nevertheless, to-day, when the
young man spoke of settling something, taking a line, she felt that
it was the truth, and she answered very simply and without
hesitating.
"We must do our duty," she said; "we must speak to my father. I will
do it to-night; you must do it to-morrow"
"It is very good of you to do it first," Morris answered.
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