But I was wrong.

It was there in my heart already, and day by day, as I saw him, as I heard him speak, the thing grew until I could not see him cross the lawn, hear him speak to the dog, without thrilling, without shivering, shuddering! Father, have pity on me! No, I won't ask for pity! I won't have it! But I ask, I demand, sympathy, your help! Father," she drew nearer to him and looked into his eyes with an awful look of desperation, of broken pride, of the aching craving of love, "you must help me.

I love him, I must be his wife--I cannot live without him, I will not!" He paled and gnawed at his thick lip.
"You talk like a madwoman," he said, hoarsely.
She nodded.
"Yes, I am mad; I know it; I know it! But I shall never be sane again.
All my days and all my nights are consumed in this madness.

I think of him--I call up his face--ah!" She flung her hands before her face and swayed to and fro as if she were half dazed, half giddy with passion.
"And all day I have to fight against the risk, the peril of discovery.
To feel the women's eyes on me when he comes near, to feel that their ears are strained to catch the note in my voice which will give me away, place me under their scorn--and to know that, try as I will, my voice, my eyes will grow tender as they rest on him, as I speak to him! To have to hide, to conceal, to crush down my heart while it is aching, throbbing with the torture of my love for him!" He strode from her, then came back.

The sight of the storm within her had moved him: for, after all, this strange girl was his daughter, flesh of his flesh, bone of his bone.