"My dear girl," said he, much touched. "It is not worth all these
tears. See, you are getting all muddy, you ought not to touch me."
"That does not matter," said she. "I have more spots than that on my
conscience. Forgive me!"
"Forgive you for what? Why do you say such things?"
"Because I have been wicked to you myself; I haven't understood
you--(I don't think I ever shall)--but I do know that whatever you do,
you only mean what is right. I ought to have stood up for you and I
have not done it. I was angry with your foolishness, but it is really
I that was the fool, and it vexed me too, when you got everyone down
on you. But now ... it is really too unjust! That a lot of men who are
not fit to tie your shoe ... that they should strike you! Let me kiss
your poor muddy face!"
It was so sweet to find each other again!--When she had had a good cry
on Clerambault's neck, she helped him to dress, then she bathed his
cheek with arnica, and carried off his clothes to brush them. At table
her eyes dwelt on him with the old affectionate care, while he tried
to calm her fears by talking of familiar things. To be alone together
without the children took them back to the old days, the early times
of their marriage. And the memory had a sad, quiet sweetness--as the
evening angelus spreads through the growing gloom a last softened
glory from the angelus of noon.
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