‘That is what she wants, is it?’ ‘Do you blame her?’ he said stiffly. Her head ached with a hollow pain. When the doctor came in—he had just finished his breakfast—O'Higgins rose and presented his card. Her aunt was blandly amiable above a certain tremulous undertow, and talked as if to a caller about the alarming spread of marigolds that summer at the end of the garden, a sort of Yellow Peril to all the smaller hardy annuals, while her father brought some papers to table and presented himself as preoccupied with them. His first inquiries were concerning the child, and he was delighted to find that it still lived and was doing well. It seemed to show a want of affection, to be a deliberate and unmerited disregard, to justify the reprisal of being hurt. . "What is this!" cried Sir Rowland. Not so Gosse. At length, about three o'clock, as the first glimmer of dawn became visible through the barred casements of the round-house, the rattling of bolts and chains at the outer door told that some one was admitted. A small voice greeted her, hissing. A man's laced hat,—whether adopted from the caprice of the moment, or habitually worn, we are unable to state,—cocked knowingly on her head, harmonized with her masculine appearance. But her tears had been for Leonardo’s expulsion, and the loss of his companionship. CHAPTER XIX. The world isn't real yet; she hasn't comparisons by which to govern her acts.
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