"Well, well, have your own way," he replied. He entered the house, and,
seeing that all her things had not yet been brought down, went up to
her room to look on. He had never been there since she had occupied it.
Evidences of her care, of her endeavours for improvement, were
visible all around, in the form of books, sketches, maps, and little
arrangements for tasteful effects. Henchard had known nothing of these
efforts. He gazed at them, turned suddenly about, and came down to the
door.
"Look here," he said, in an altered voice--he never called her by
name now--"don't 'ee go away from me. It may be I've spoke roughly to
you--but I've been grieved beyond everything by you--there's something
that caused it."
"By me?" she said, with deep concern. "What have I done?"
"I can't tell you now. But if you'll stop, and go on living as my
daughter, I'll tell you all in time."
But the proposal had come ten minutes too late. She was in the fly--was
already, in imagination, at the house of the lady whose manner had such
charms for her. "Father," she said, as considerately as she could, "I
think it best for us that I go on now. I need not stay long; I shall not
be far away, and if you want me badly I can soon come back again."
He nodded ever so slightly, as a receipt of her decision and no more.
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