"
This was rather shocking to old Mr. Percival, who shared the common
opinion of matrimony, that it should be marked by champagne at luncheons.
It was a signal for rejoicing--therefore you must rejoice. White stood for
a wedding all the world over, black for a funeral. To go scowling to
church, or tearless to the cemetery, was to fail in duty.
"We mustn't look at it like that, my darling. I don't think we ought,
indeed. Fate, you know! That's a gloomy view of an affair of the sort. I
don't pretend to understand you, quite, my love. You see, a year or two
ago, you would have asked nothing better--and now you call it fate. Oh, my
dear--"
She could not have hoped that he would understand, and yet she felt more
like crying than at any time yet. "My heart is cold," she said. "It's
dead, I think."
He echoed her, whispering, "Not dead, Sancie, not dead, my child. Numbed.
He'll warm it asleep, he'll kiss it awake. He loves you."
She moaned as she shook her head. "No, no. He wants me--that's all."
"Well, my dear," pleaded good Mr. Percival, "and so he may. We do want
what we love, don't we now? He's come to his senses by this time, found
out the need of you. And I don't wonder at it.
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