They swept over Janet, for the moment blinding
her in her fondness for this child, full of swift impulse in her
gratitude, and drugged with romance in her mind. But once those
endearments had been spoken, when once the presents had been divested
of their paper wrappings--porcelain representations of the Bambinos
from Florence--a marble statue of the Venus de Milo from Pisa--an
ornament in mosaic from Rome--when once they had been set up, admired,
paid for in kisses of gratitude, then Janet gave words to the
questions that had been looking from her eyes.
"What sort of a settlement has he made on you?" she asked.
The inquiry, notwithstanding the fact that it had been spoken with
a gentle voice, tuned to consideration for her feelings, struck the
sensitiveness of Sally's mind, whipped the blood to her cheeks.
"There is no settlement. Why should there be?"
"Why? Well, for every reason in the world, I should think."
"There is none, then."
"You haven't even suggested it?"
"No!"
She rose, turning away from the bed where she had been sitting, with
the tears smarting in her eyes. Janet looked after her, an expression
of contemplation pursing her features, wrinkling her forehead.
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