Nevertheless, she felt
a wound, even if he had not dealt it; it seemed to her that a mask
had suddenly fallen from his face. He had wished to get away from
her; he had been angry and cruel, and said strange things, with
strange looks. She was smothered and stunned; she buried her head in
the cushions, sobbing and talking to herself. But at last she raised
herself, with the fear that either her father or Mrs. Penniman would
come in; and then she sat there, staring before her, while the room
grew darker. She said to herself that perhaps he would come back to
tell her he had not meant what he said; and she listened for his ring
at the door, trying to believe that this was probable. A long time
passed, but Morris remained absent; the shadows gathered; the evening
settled down on the meagre elegance of the light, clear-coloured
room; the fire went out. When it had grown dark, Catherine went to
the window and looked out; she stood there for half an hour, on the
mere chance that he would come up the steps. At last she turned
away, for she saw her father come in. He had seen her at the window
looking out, and he stopped a moment at the bottom of the white
steps, and gravely, with an air of exaggerated courtesy, lifted his
hat to her. The gesture was so incongruous to the condition she was
in, this stately tribute of respect to a poor girl despised and
forsaken was so out of place, that the thing gave her a kind of
horror, and she hurried away to her room.
Pages:
197
198
199
200
201
202
203
204
205
206
207
208
209
210
211
212
213
214
215
216
217
218
219
220
221