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restless or shown a sign of doubt, if he had even
ordered the sledge to stand in the shade—but he
was all patience and certainty—sure, so infectiously
sure, that she would come if he only waited.
Her head ached, every nerve quivered. She could
get no peace while he sat there. It seemed as if his
will were dragging her, bound hand and foot, downstairs.
Then she decided to speak to him.
Before he came she made the nurse pull up the
blinds, and she lay so that her face was distinctly
seen. By this she meant to put him to the proof;
but Melchior Sinclaire was a wonderful man that
day.
When he saw her, he made no gesture, no cry of
surprise. It seemed as if he saw no difference in her.
She knew how he had prized her beauty; but he
showed no grief now, and kept control over all his
being so as not to cause her any farther sorrow.
This touched her, and she began to understand how
it was that her mother still loved him. He showed
no sign of hesitation. He came with no reproaches
or excuses.
“I will wrap you in the wolf-skin, Marienne. It
is n’t cold, it has been lying on my knee all the
time.”
In any case he went forward to the fire and
warmed it. Afterwards he helped her to rise, wrapped
the fur about her, drew a shawl over her head, pulled
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