That’s my point. A post-chaise seen in the road first alarmed us. She then dried her eyes, and laying her child gently upon the floor, knelt down beside him. ‘He can’t be Valade, that’s certain,’ mused Gerald, unheeding. They returned to the castle, neither of them speaking. Both had dropped the rather elaborate politeness of the dining-room, and in their faces an impartial observer would have discovered little lines of obstinate wilfulness in common; a certain hardness—sharp, indeed, in the father and softly rounded in the daughter—but hardness nevertheless, that made every compromise a bargain and every charity a discount.
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