"
They say the poor thing was always allowed a light at night, even
in her bedroom. . . . And yet, no young girl could more archly and
lovingly have played with an adored father. She was always
holding him by both coat lapels; cross-questioning him as to how
he spent his time; kissing the top of his head. Ah, she was
well-bred, if ever anyone was.
The poor, wretched man cringed before her--but she could not
have done more to put him at his ease. Perhaps she had had
lessons in it at her convent. It was only that peculiar note of his
voice, used when he was overbearing or dogmatic, that could
unman her--and that was only visible when it came unexpectedly.
That was because the bad dreams that the blessed saints allowed
her to have for her sins always seemed to her to herald themselves
by the booming sound of her father's voice. It was that sound that
had always preceded his entrance for the terrible lunches of her
childhood. . . .
I have reported, earlier in this chapter, that Leonora said, during
that remainder of their stay at Nauheim, after I had left, it had
seemed to her that she was fighting a long duel with unseen
weapons against silent adversaries.
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