Things went on as before
in their old monotonous manner. Winter relented into spring, and the
intimacy that had warmed almost into acknowledged love that wild March
evening had apparently died of its own intensity. Rose and Allan met
occasionally, but with mutual avoidance; she from innate loyalty to
her father--he from a pride that was too strong to plead. So the
endless conflict went on, but not alone in the minds of the lovers.
The doughty Commodore was daily suffering in his own person the just
punishment, which is but too apt to overtake the man, who in a point
of difference with a woman ends by having his own way. This stern
parent liked to think of himself as generous, compassionate, and
tender-hearted; and he had been grievously cheated out of this
agreeable sensation. His daughter's absolute and sweet-natured loyalty
to his will sharpened his sense of deprivation. Was it possible that
he was unnatural and tyrannical? The answer to this question was what
Rose's pale cheeks seemed to require of him, and he chafed under the
mute, unconscious, persistent repetition of the query. He recommended
her to take long walks, but she came back from them paler and more
lifeless than before.
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