"And your father?"
"My father is dead also."
"You did not tell me that last night," replied the baronet, with some
touch of suspicion in his tone, for he fancied the girl's manner had
changed when she spoke of her father.
"Did I not?" she said, quietly. "I do not think you asked me any
question about my father; but if you did, I may have answered at
random; I was confused last night from exhaustion and want of rest, and
I scarcely knew what I said."
"What was your father?"
"He was a sailor."
"There is something that is scarcely English in your face," said Sir
Oswald; "were you born in England?"
"No, I was born in Florence; my mother was a Florentine."
"Indeed."
There was a pause. It seemed evident that this girl did not care to
tell the story of her past life, and that whatever information the
baronet wanted to obtain, must be extorted from her little by little. A
common vagrant would have been eager to pour out some tale of misery,
true or false, in the hearing of the man who promised to be her
benefactor; but this girl maintained a reserve which Sir Oswald found
it very difficult to penetrate.
"I fear there is something of a painful nature in your past history,"
he said, at last; "something which you do not care to reveal."
"There is much that is painful, much that I cannot tell."
"And yet you must be aware that it will be very difficult for me to
give you assistance if I do not know to whom I am giving it.
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