She longed for home. She longed especially for

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her father and his wise tenderness. Because she longed so gre

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n front did Félise oppose. Madame Robineau lost her temper. Her thin lips twitched. “I order you,” she said, “to marry Lucien Viriot.” “I am sorry to say anything to vex you, ma tante,” replied Félise valiantly; “but you have not the power.” “And I suppose your uncle has not the power to command you?” “I

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n matters like that, no, ma tante,” said Félise. Aunt Clothilde rose from her straight-backed chair and shook a long, threatening finger. The nail at the end was also long and not very clean. Félise often wondered whether her aunt abhorred a nail-brush by way of

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Temporibus autem

mortification. “When one considers all the benefits my brother has heaped on your head,” she cried in a rasping voice, “you are nothing else than a little monster of ingratitude!” Félise flared up. She did not lack spirit. “It is false,” she cried. “I ad

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ore my Uncle Gaspard. I would give him my life. I am not ungrateful. It is worse than false.” “It is true,” retorted Madame Robineau. “Otherwise you would not refuse him the desire of his heart. Without him you would have not a rag to your back, or a shoe to yo

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t, and no more religion than a heathen. It is to him you owe everything—everything. Without him you would be in the gutter where he fished you from.” She ended on a shrill note. Félise, very pale, faced her passionately, with a new light in her mild eyes. “What do you mean? The gutter? My father——?” “Bah! Your father! Your vagabond, ne’er-do-weel scamp of a father! He’s a scandal to the family, your father. He should neve

r have been born.” The girl reeled. It was a foul bludgeon blow. Madame Robineau, with quick realisation of folly, checked furth

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er utterance and allowed Félise, white, quivering and vanquished, but carrying her little head fiercely in the air, to re

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tire from the scene with all the honours of war. Madame Robineau was sorry. She had lost both temper and dignity. Her nex

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t confession would be an unpleasant matter. Possibly, however, the Abbé Duloup would understand and guess the provocation

r the

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. She shrugged her lean shoulders. It was good sometimes for hoity-toity damsels to learn humility. So she sat down again,

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