tiful because of beauty, but because she was herself. Beauty now all depended on being Blanche. If it were she, then it was safe.
He learned a deal of her while they were among the other people—and this was often enough. He saw she was more ignorant of books than he; for sometimes, when they came in in the late afternoon, they took the way of the scholar's study, and entering flushed from the air, no doubt to him a living bucolic, they took at least half of his mind off of his volumes by pulling them about and skimming over them. She had never heard of Atalanta, but she thought it was like Carron. She listened to the story of the Golden Fleece and found Carron in it. She pointed him out to himself in the pictures of the beautiful bas-reliefs of the Parthenon—one of the mounted figures—and embarrassed him by calling attention to its perfections. The two men spent some quiet twilights with her, her head closer to her father's than to Carron's, but close to both.
Once, across her ruffled hair, as she bent above Carlyle's thunders, the scholar sent a glance, inquiring and anxious. Carron had almost nodded to reassure him, "Yes, I love her," when he remembered it was not of this Rader wanted to ask. The repeated appearance of the man and the woman to-
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