But how could she welcome him
when she felt so vividly that he ought not to have come? "I wanted
so much--I was determined," Morris went on. But he stopped again; it
was not easy. Catherine still said nothing, and he may well have
recalled with apprehension her ancient faculty of silence. She
continued to look at him, however, and as she did so she made the
strangest observation. It seemed to be he, and yet not he; it was
the man who had been everything, and yet this person was nothing.
How long ago it was--how old she had grown--how much she had lived!
She had lived on something that was connected with HIM, and she had
consumed it in doing so. This person did not look unhappy. He was
fair and well-preserved, perfectly dressed, mature and complete. As
Catherine looked at him, the story of his life defined itself in his
eyes; he had made himself comfortable, and he had never been caught.
But even while her perception opened itself to this, she had no
desire to catch him; his presence was painful to her, and she only
wished he would go.
"Will you not sit down?" he asked.
"I think we had better not," said Catherine.
"I offend you by coming?" He was very grave; he spoke in a tone of
the richest respect.
"I don't think you ought to have come."
"Did not Mrs. Penniman tell you--did she not give you my message?"
"She told me something, but I did not understand.
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