'From our friend you learnt that father was still
living. That is all?' said Lady Annabel, inquiringly.
'No, not all, dear mother; not all. Lord Cadurcis reproached me at
Cherbury with, with, with having such a father,' she added, in a
hesitating voice. 'It was then I learnt his misfortunes, mother; his
misery.'
'I thought that misfortunes, that misery, were the lot of your other
parent,' replied Lady Annabel, somewhat coldly.
'Not with my love,' said Venetia, eagerly; 'not with my love, mother.
You have forgotten your misery in my love. Say so, say so, dearest
mother.' And Venetia threw herself on her knees before Lady Annabel,
and looked up with earnestness in her face.
The expression of that countenance had been for a moment stern, but
it relaxed into fondness, as Lady Annabel gently bowed her head, and
pressed her lips to her daughter's forehead. 'Ah, Venetia!' she said,
'all depends upon you. I can endure, nay, I can forget the past, if my
child be faithful to me. There are no misfortunes, there is no misery,
if the being to whom I have consecrated the devotion of my life will
only be dutiful, will only be guided by my advice, will only profit by
my sad experience.'
'Mother, I repeat I have no thought but for you,' said Venetia.
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