She retired,
therefore, and left the clinging pair. Directly she was gone, the good
gentleman's embrace of his child grew straighter, and his kisses of her
brows and hair more ardent. He humbled himself before her, thanked her for
coming back to him. "My darling, it was fine of you to come! 'Pon my soul,
it was fine!"
"No, darling, no," she protested, smiling sadly at his fondness.
"I always loved you, my child! My Sancie--you know that of your old
father, hey?" He pinched her cheek before he kissed it again. "'Pon my
life, it cut me down like a frost to do--what was done."
"I know, I know," Sanchia murmured, and then begged him not to speak of
it.
"Ah, but I must, you know," he vowed. "What! A damned unnatural
father!..." And then he held her closely, while he whispered his anxiety.
"Sancie--tell me, my lamb--put my mind at rest. He--that fellow--that
Ingram--he was good to you, hey? He didn't--hey?"
She vowed in her turn. "Oh, yes, dearest, yes. Of course he was. I was
very happy, except for--what couldn't be helped, you know."
"Yes, yes--it couldn't be helped. I know that you felt that. I was bound--
for the others, don't you see?--sake of example. That sort of thing, don't
you see?" He shook his head.
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