Catherine got up and went slowly to the door of the
library, where she waited a moment, motionless. Then she knocked,
and then she waited again. Her father had answered her, but she had
not the courage to turn the latch. What she had said to her aunt was
true enough--she was afraid of him; and in saying that she had no
sense of weakness she meant that she was not afraid of herself. She
heard him move within, and he came and opened the door for her.
"What is the matter?" asked the Doctor. "You are standing there like
a ghost."
She went into the room, but it was some time before she contrived to
say what she had come to say. Her father, who was in his dressing-
gown and slippers, had been busy at his writing-table, and after
looking at her for some moments, and waiting for her to speak, he
went and seated himself at his papers again. His back was turned to
her--she began to hear the scratching of his pen. She remained near
the door, with her heart thumping beneath her bodice; and she was
very glad that his back was turned, for it seemed to her that she
could more easily address herself to this portion of his person than
to his face. At last she began, watching it while she spoke.
"You told me that if I should have anything more to say about Mr.
Townsend you would be glad to listen to it."
"Exactly, my dear," said the Doctor, not turning round, but stopping
his pen.
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