"What I have to say to thee
importeth much."
She flushed and paled with the struggle of the moment, then a beautiful
calm came over her face; she laid down her pencil and, quietly dropping
her hands in her lap, she turned to him with a smile that might have
disarmed an angrier man--it was full of tenderness, though it was
shadowed by pain.
It relaxed his sternness, and, after a moment's hesitation, he came
around the table and sat down beside her.
"To-night is the fete at Ca' Giustiniani, for the young noble of their
house."
He waited for her to speak, but she did not tremble now, though he was
searching her face.
"Yes, father, I know."
"And, Marina--I do not understand--and it is a grief to me----"
She nestled to him closely and tried to slip one of her slender hands
between his, which were tightly strained together in a knotted clasp, as
if he would make them the outlet for some unbearable emotion.
The previous evening was the first they had not passed together since
the death of Zuanino; her father had sent her word that he had matter
which would occupy him alone, and all day Marina had been heavy-hearted,
going at matins and at vespers quite alone to the Madonna at the Duomo,
that she might take comfort and counsel.
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