“Yes, of course, and that’s sound reasoning.” For a moment Northrup felt as though a clear north wind were blowing away the dust in an overlooked corner of his mind. “But it’s rather staggering to find that you read French,” he added, for the quotation had been literally translated. “You do, don’t you?”
“I do, a little. I’m taking it up again for Noreen.”
Noreen’s name was continually being brought into focus. It had the effect of pushing Northrup, metaphorically, into a safe zone. He resented this.
“She is afraid!” he thought. “Rivers has left his mark upon her mind, damn him!”
This sentiment should have given warning, but it did not.
“I study nights”––Mary-Clare was speaking quite as if fear had no part in her thought––“French, mathematics––all the hard things that went in and––stuck.”
“Hard things do stick, don’t they?” Northrup hated the pushed-aside feeling.
“Terribly. But my doctor was adamant about hard things. He used to say that I’d learn to love chipping off the rough corners.” Here Mary-Clare laughed, and the sound set Northrup’s nerves a-tingle as the clear notes of music did.
“I can see myself now, Mr. Northrup, sitting behind my doctor on his horse, my book flattened out against his back. I’d ask questions; he’d fling the answers to me. Once I drew the map of Italy on his blessed old shoulders with crayon and often French verbs ran crookedly up the seam of his coat, for the horse changed his gait now and then.”