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Updated: June 25, 2025
He became conscious that, though he would have been glad to question Dowie daily and closely, a certain reluctance of mind held him back. Also he realised that, being a primitive though excellent woman, Dowie herself was secretly awed into avoidance of the subject.
"I want to KISS you, Dowie," she said. "To be sure, my lamb," answered Dowson, and, laying down her mending, she gave her a motherly hug. After which Robin went back contentedly to her play. The Frenchwoman thought it a pretty bit of childish affectionateness. But it happened more than once during the day, and at night Mademoiselle commented upon it.
At times she stood gazing at them out of a window, sometimes she sat in a deep window seat with her hands lying listlessly upon her lap but with her eyes always resting on the farthest line of the heather. Once she sat thus so long that Dowie crept out of the empty stone chamber where she had been waiting and went and stood behind her.
Dowie did not leave her for an hour or more but sat by her bedside and watched. Like this had been the crying in the night. And she had been alone. As she sat and watched she thought deeply after her lights. She did not think only of the sweet shattered thing she so well loved. She thought much of Lord Coombe.
"You were a baby. I understood. That prevented there being anything to forgive anything." "I ought to have loved you as I loved Mademoiselle and Dowie." Her eyes filled with tears. "And I think I hated you. It began with Donal," in a soft wail. "I heard Andrews say that his mother wouldn't let him know me because you were my mother's friend. And then as I grew older "
I want to keep them on a chair quite near me so that I can put out my hand and touch them." "Yes, my lamb," Dowie agreed cheerfully. But she knew she was going to hear something else. And this would be the third time. "I want to show them to Donal." The very perfection of her naturalness gave Dowie a cold chill, even while she thanked God.
"She has never been ill, my lord," Dowie had answered, " but she is ill now." "Save her save it for me," he broke out in a voice she had never heard and with a face she had never seen. That in this plainly overwrought hour he should allow himself a moment of forgetfulness drew him touchingly near to her. "My lord," she said, "I've watched over her since she was five.
When Robin went into it she stood for a few moments looking about her looking and wondering. "Lord Coombe remembers everything," she said very slowly at last, " everything. He remembers." "He always did remember," said Dowie watching her. "That's it." "I did not know at first," Robin said as slowly as before. "I do now."
She did not know where or when or how she had ever heard or read of the ghastly incidents which came trooping up to her and staring at her with dead or mad eyes and awful faces. Perhaps they were old nightmares-perhaps a kind of delirium had seized her. She tried to stop their coming by saying over and over again the prayers Dowie had taught her when she was a child.
She felt something as she had felt years ago when she had said to Dowie. "I want to kiss you, Dowie." Her eyes were pools of childish tenderness because she so well understood the infinitude of the friendly tact which drew her within its own circle with the light humour of its "I don't let them frighten ME." "You are kind kind to me," she said. "And I am grateful GRATEFUL."
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