"Gone, gone!" It was all she
could think or say. "Gone, gone."
Jean took the offending novel back home with him, hidden under his
jerkin; but Beverley's note lay upon Alice's heart, a sweet
comfort and a crushing weight, when an hour later Hamilton sent
for her and she was taken before him. Her face was stained with
tears and she looked pitifully distressed and disheveled; yet
despite all this her beauty asserted itself with subtle force.
Hamilton felt ashamed looking at her, but put on sternness and
spoke without apparent sympathy:
"Miss Roussillon, you came near committing a great crime. As it
is, you have done badly enough; but I wish not to be unreasonably
severe. I hope you are sorry for your act, and feel like doing
better hereafter."
She was trembling, but her eyes looked steadily straight into his.
They were eyes of baby innocence, yet they irradiated a strong
womanly spirit just touched with the old perverse, mischievous
light which she could neither banish nor control. When she did not
make reply, Hamilton continued:
"You may go home now, and I shall expect to have no more trouble
on your account." He made a gesture indicative of dismissal; then,
as she turned from him, he added, somewhat raising his voice:
"And further, Miss Roussillon, that flag you took from here must
positively be returned.
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