that had been accorded her, this power to live and go on living a new life deep in her secret self, invisible to the people outside, this power to live and love . . .
She felt grateful: something sang in her like a hymn of thanksgiving; but she was filled with compassion for Marianne. The girl, despite Constance' cheering words, still lay motionless against her shoulder, with closed eyes, as though dead. Constance now gently forced her to rise, led her away without a word . . . while Bertha remained sitting, just followed them both with her dull, indifferent eyes, then looked out at the roses in the garden, her hands lying helplessly in her black lap.
Constance opened the door, led the girl into the drawing-room. The carpet had been taken up, the curtains taken down; the furniture stood cold and lifeless on the bare boards.
"Marianne, darling, do listen to me now!" Constance forced herself to say, in a firmer voice. "I am not angry and I wanted to speak to you . . . and I have something to ask you . . . But first tell me: do you believe that I care for you and that anything I say and ask comes from nothing but my love for you?"
Marianne opened her eyes:
"Yes, Auntie."
"Well, then," said Constance, "Van Vreeswijck . . ."
