Say no
more about it; put the idea out of your head."
She laughed, and rose, and gliding to him, put her hand on his arm.
"My dear father," she said in a low voice, but with a strange and
subtle vibration in it, as if the passion with which she was struggling
threatened to burst forth, "you don't know what you ask; you don't know
what love is--and you don't know what I am! I didn't know myself until
the last few days; until a gradual light shone on the truth and showed
me my heart, the heart I once thought would never grow warm with love!
Oh, I was a fool! I played with fire, and I have been burned. I am
burning still!" She pressed her hand against her bosom, and for an
instant the passion within her darted from her eyes and twisted the
red, perfectly formed lips. Her hand tightened on his arm, her breath
came pantingly, now quickly, now slowly. "Father I have come to you.
Most girls go to their mother. I have none. I come to you because
I--must! You ask me to put the--the idea out of my head." She laughed a
low laugh of self-scorn and bitterness. "Do you think I have not tried
to steel, to harden, my heart against this feeling which has been
creeping insidiously over me, creeping, stealing gliding like a cloud
until it has enveloped me? I have fought against it as never woman
fought against the approach of love.
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