Dr. Duchesne drove up, helped him into the buggy, smiled a good-natured
but half-perfunctory assurance that he would look after "her patient,"
and drove away.
The whole thing was over, but so unexpectedly, so suddenly, so
unromantically, so unsatisfactorily, that, although her common sense
told her that it was perfectly natural, proper, business-like, and
reasonable, and, above all, final and complete, she did not know whether
to laugh or be angry. Yet this was her parting from the man who had but
a few days ago moved her to tears with a single hopeless gesture.
Well, this would teach her what to expect. Well, what had she expected?
Nothing!
Yet for the rest of the day she was unreasonably irritable, and, if the
conjointure be not paradoxical, severely practical, and inhumanly
just. Falling foul of some presumption of Miguel's, based upon his
prescriptive rights through long service on the estate, with the
recollection of her severity towards his antagonist in her mind, she
rated that trusted retainer with such pitiless equity and unfeminine
logic that his hot Latin blood chilled in his veins, and he stood livid
on the road.
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