His hands were crossed, his fingers interlaced; usually a position
implying some degree of resolution, or strength; but in him it was
so faintly maintained, that it appeared more the result of chance;
an attitude requiring some application of outward force to alter--
and a blow with a straw seemed as though it would be sufficient.
And as for his face, it was sunk and worn--like a skull, with yet a
suffering expression that skulls have not! Your heart would have
ached to have seen the man, however hardly you might have judged his
crime.
But crime and all was forgotten by his daughter, as she saw his
abashed look, his smitten helplessness. All along she had felt it
difficult (as I may have said before) to reconcile the two ideas, of
her father and a blood-shedder. But now it was impossible. He was
her father! her own dear father! and in his sufferings, whatever
their cause, more dearly loved than ever before. His crime was a
thing apart, never more to be considered by her.
And tenderly did she treat him, and fondly did she serve him in
every way that heart could devise, or hand execute.
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