But somehow the thread was broken. Duncombe found himself watching the
little gray man opposite, who ate and drank so sparingly, who talked
only when he was spoken to, and yet who seemed to be taking a keen but
covert interest in everything that went on about him. Her father! There
was no likeness, no shadow of a likeness. Yet Duncombe felt almost a
personal interest in him. They would know one another better some day,
he felt.
"So you've been in Paris lately?" he asked her suddenly.
She nodded.
"For a few days."
"I arrived from there barely a week ago," he remarked.
"I hate the place!" she answered. "Talk of something else."
And he obeyed.
The second interruption came from Andrew. During a momentary lull in the
conversation they heard his firm clear voice talking.
"My time was up yesterday, but I find so much to interest me down here
that I think I shall stay on for a few more days, if my host remains as
hospitable as ever."
"So much to interest him," she murmured. "Are not all places the same to
the blind? What does he mean?"
"He is not really blind!" Duncombe answered, lowering his voice. "He can
see things very dimly.
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