Her own latent motherhood,
however, kept stealing up out of the dim distances of childhood's
ignorance and, with modesty and allusiveness, whispering knowledge in
her ear. So it was that now she looked back pensively to the years she
had spent within sight and sound of her handsome mother, and out of the
hunger of her own spirit she had come to idealize her memory. It was
good to have a loving father; but he was a man, and he was so busy just
when she wanted--when she wanted she knew not what, but at least to go
and lay her head on a heart that would understand what was her sorrow,
her joy, or her longing.
And now here at last was come Crisis, which showed its thunderous head in
the gay dance, and shook his war-locks in the fire, where her mother's
guitar had shrieked in its last agony.
When all the guests had gone, when the bolts had been shot home, and old
Seraphe Corniche had gone to bed, father and daughter came face to face.
There was a moment's pause, as the two looked at each other, and then Zoe
came up to Jean Jacques to kiss him good-night.
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