The overnight nervous strain began to tell; she became inattentive to the work before her, and it did not get on. . He stood up and she ushered him out of the small room. ‘The old man who lives here, idiot. ‘But what way, Emile?’ ‘Your family, mademoiselle, the family of your father. To have spoken lightly on such a subject a few hours ago would have seemed incredible. He was braver than her husband, who paced and cowered in the corners of the once-sunny Palazzo. There was no response. . So the talk went on, and presently they were criticising novelists, and certain daring essays of Wilkins got their due share of attention, and then they were discussing the future of the theatre. “Do you mean, aunt,” she asked, “that my father thought I had gone off—with some man?” “What else COULD he think? Would any one DREAM you would be so mad as to go off alone?” “After—after what had happened the night before?” “Oh, why raise up old scores? If you could see him this morning, his poor face as white as a sheet and all cut about with shaving! He was for coming up by the very first train and looking for you, but I said to him, ‘Wait for the letters,’ and there, sure enough, was yours.
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