And so you see it is love—not scorn, not malice; only love—that makes me harm her, in the end.
Chapter Eleven
We leave, just as we have planned, on the last day of April. /y 1/ Richard''s stay is complete. My uncle''s prints are mounted and bound: he takes me to view them, as a sort of treat.
''Fine work,'' he says. ''You think, Maud? Hmm?''
''Yes, sir.''
''Do you look?''
''Yes, Uncle.''
''Yes. Fine work. I believe I shall send for Hawtrey and Huss. I shall have them come—next week? What do you say? Shall we make an occasion of it?''
I do not answer. I am thinking of the dining-room, the drawing-room—and me, in some other shadowy place, far off. He turns to Richard.