The little model raised her face. "Yes, Mr. Stone."
"Strike it out."
With his eyes fixed on the trees he stood breathing audibly. The little
model moved her fingers, freeing them from cramp. Blanca's curious,
smiling scrutiny never left her, as though trying to fix an indelible
image on her mind. There was something terrifying in that stare, cruel
to herself, cruel to the girl.
"The precise word," said Mr. Stone, "eludes me. Leave a blank.
Follow!... 'Neither that sweet fraternal interest of man in man, nor a
curiosity in phenomena merely as phenomena....'" His voice pursued its
tenuous path through spaces, frozen by the calm eternal presence of
his beloved idea, which, like a golden moon, far and cold, presided
glamorously above the thin track of words. And still the girl's
pen-point traced his utterance across the pages: Mr. Stone paused again,
and looking at his daughter as though surprised to see her sitting
there, asked:
"Do you wish to speak to me, my dear?"
Blanca shook her head.
"Follow!" said Mr. Stone.
But the little model's glance had stolen round to meet the scrutiny
fixed on her.
A look passed across her face which seemed to say: 'What have I done to
you, that you should stare at me like this?'
Furtive and fascinated, her eyes remained fixed on Bianca, while her
hand moved, mechanically ticking the paragraphs.
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