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she answered. She had gained strength and courage,
and spoke authoritatively.
“Be careful, Marienne. It seems to me that your
father may have done right in harring you out last
winter. You will see you will be punished for this.
You must learn to bear things without hating,
Marienne, to suffer without revenging it.”
“Oh, mother, I am so miserable!”
Just after that it came. They heard the sound
of a heavy fall in the hall.
They never knew if Melchior Sinclaire had
stood on the hall steps and heard Marienne’s words
through the open door of the breakfast-room, or
if it was only the physical exertion that occasioned
the stroke. When they came out they found him
lying unconscious, and afterwards they never dared
to ask him about it. He too never allowed any sign
to escape him that he had heard. Marienne never
permitted herself to think that she had unconsciously
revenged herself. But the sight of her father lying
there on the same steps where she had learned to
hate him took all the bitterness out of her heart.
He soon regained consciousness, and, after keeping
quiet for a few days, was himself again—and
yet not himself.
Marienne watched her parents walking together
in the garden. It was always so now. He never
went out alone, never left home, but grumbled over
visitors and anything that separated him from his
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