The man before her appeared far more distrustful of himself than if he had been called to lead the forlornest of forlorn hopes.
“You will find him changed.”
“Am I to go alone?”
“If you wish it.”
Bertrand’s face betrayed his unwillingness.
“I would rather—”
“I came with you?”
And she took his hand.
Stephen Raguenel was sitting in his chair before the fire, with the look of a man exhausted by too sudden and great a joy. Tears were still shining on his cheeks. Bertrand felt more afraid of him than of a weeping girl.
“Father, I have brought Bertrand to you.”