Then, as if moved to make another effort, he started spasmodically forward.
“Claire, my child—if you only knew!”
But she shrank from him with the look of horror intensified.
“Don’t—don’t touch me,” she whispered, in a harsh, dry voice. “Don’t: pray don’t.”
“But, Claire—”
“I know,” she whispered, trembling violently. “It is our secret. I will not speak. Father—they should kill me first; but don’t—don’t. Father—father—you have broken my heart!”
As she burst forth in a piteous wail in these words, the terrible involuntary shrinking he had seen in her passed away. The stiff angularity that had seemed to pervade her was gone, and she sank upon her knees, holding by the back of the chair, and rested her brow upon her hands, sobbing and drawing her breath painfully.
He stood there gazing down at her, but for a time he did not move. Then, taking a step forward, he saw that she heard him, and shrank again.
“Claire, my child,” he gasped once more, “if you only knew!”
“Hush!—for God’s sake, hush!” she said, in a whisper. “Can you not see? It is our secret. You are my father. I am trying so hard. But don’t—don’t—”