“It’s still a marvel to me that we are to be forgiven,” she said, turning. She saw herself begin a slow, sinuous dance: and stop suddenly in the middle of a figure, conscious that the dance was not impromptu, her own, but native—the same dance she had quitted but a few minutes gone. You did not complain then that I personated you—no, nor when Sir John came to me in Paris, and for your sake I lied. His eyes were bright, and his voice had in it an unaccustomed timbre. You are queerly educated; and it strikes me that your father had some definite purpose in thus educating you.
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