. . Why, she will
never do anything again. I can't believe it . . .
Anyhow, we were chattering away about the morality of lotteries.
And then, suddenly, there came from the arcades behind us the
overtones of her father's unmistakable voice; it was as if a
modified foghorn had boomed with a reed inside it. I looked
round to catch sight of him. A tall, fair, stiffly upright man of
fifty, he was walking away with an Italian baron who had had
much to do with the Belgian Congo. They must have been talking
about the proper treatment of natives, for I heard him say:
"Oh, hang humanity!"
When I looked again at Nancy her eyes were closed and her face
was more pallid than her dress, which had at least some pinkish
reflections from the gravel. It was dreadful to see her with her
eyes closed like that.
"Oh!" she exclaimed, and her hand that had appeared to be
groping, settled for a moment on my arm. "Never speak of it.
Promise never to tell my father of it. It brings back those dreadful
dreams . . ." And, when she opened her eyes she looked straight
into mine. "The blessed saints," she said, "you would think they
would spare you such things. I don't believe all the sinning in the
world could make one deserve them.
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