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“-wasted, my child-should not be wasted, struck aside from the
natural order of things-for my sake. Your unselfishness cannot
entirely comprehend how much my mind has gone on this; but,
only ask yourself, how could my happiness be perfect, while yours
was incomplete?” “If I had never seen Charles, my father, I should
have been quite happy with you.” He smiled at her unconscious
admission that she would have been unhappy without Charles,
having seen him; and replied: “My child, you did see him, and it is
Charles. If it had not been Charles, it would have been another. Or,
if it had been no other, I should have been the cause, and then the
dark part of my life would have cast its shadow beyond myself,
and would have fallen on you.” It was the first time, except at the
trial, of her ever hearing him refer to the period of his suffering. It
gave her a strange and new sensation while his words were in her
ears; and she remembered it long afterwards.

“See!” said the Doctor of Beauvais, raising his hand towards the
moon. “I have looked at her from my prison-window, when I
could not bear her fight. I have looked at her when it has been such
torture to me to think of her shining upon what I had lost, that I
have beaten my head against my prison-walls. I have looked at her,
in a state so dull and lethargic, that I have thought of nothing but
the number of horizontal lines I could draw across her at the full,
and the number of perpendicular lines with which I could intersect
them.” He added in his inward and pondering manner, as he
looked at the moon, “It was twenty either way, I remember, and
the twentieth was difficult to squeeze in.” The strange thrill with
which she heard him go back to that time, deepened as he dwelt
upon it; but, there was nothing to shock her in the manner of his
reference. He only seemed to contrast his present cheerfulness and
felicity with the dire endurance that was over.

“I have looked at her, speculating thousands of times upon the
unborn child from whom I had been rent. Whether it was alive.
Whether it had been born alive, or the poor mother’s shock had
killed it. Whether it was a son who would some day avenge his
father. (There was a time in my imprisonment, when my desire for
vengeance was unbearable.) Whether it was a son who would
never know his father’s story; who might even live to weigh the
possibility of his father’s having disappeared of his own will and
act. Whether it was a daughter who would grow to be a woman.”
She drew closer to him, and kissed his cheek and his hand.

“I have pictured my daughter, to myself, as perfectly forgetful of
me-rather, altogether ignorant of me, and unconscious of me. I
have cast up the years of her age, year after year. I have seen her
married to a man who knew nothing of my fate. I have altogether
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