So Herminia found it. She might have
died of grief and loneliness then and there, had it not been for
the sudden and unexpected rousing of her spirit of opposition by
Dr. Merrick's words. That cruel speech gave her the will and the
power to live. It saved her from madness. She drew herself up at
once with an injured woman's pride, and, facing her dead Alan's
father with a quick access of energy,--
"You are wrong," she said, stilling her heart with one hand.
"These rooms are mine,--my own, not dear Alan's. I engaged them
myself, for my own use, and in my own name, as Herminia Barton.
You can stay here if you wish. I will not imitate your cruelty by
refusing you access to them; but if you remain here, you must treat
me at least with the respect that belongs to my great sorrow, and
with the courtesy due to an English lady."
Her words half cowed him. He subsided at once. In silence he
stepped over to his dead son's bedside. Mechanically, almost
unconsciously, Herminia went on with the needful preparations for
Alan's funeral.
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