Presently he looked up at
Nancy sorrowfully, and said:
'She's a very pretty, nice girl, isn't she, Nancy?'
'Yes, dear; and with just your hair and eyes: I wondered it had
never struck me before.'
'I think she took a dislike to me at the thought of my being her
father: I could see a change in her manner after that.'
'She couldn't bear to think of not looking on Marner as her
father,' said Nancy, not wishing to confirm her husband's painful
impression.
'She thinks I did wrong by her mother as well as by her. She thinks
me worse than I am. But she must think it: she can never know all.
It's part of my punishment, Nancy, for my daughter to dislike me. I
should never have got into that trouble if I'd been true to you- if
I hadn't been a fool. I'd no right to expect anything but evil could
come of that marriage- and when I shirked doing a father's part too.'
Nancy was silent: her spirit of rectitude would not let her try
to soften the edge of what she felt to be a just compunction. He spoke
again after a little while, but the tone was rather changed: there was
tenderness mingled with the previous self-reproach.
'And I got you, Nancy, in spite of all; and yet I've been grumbling
and uneasy because I hadn't something else- as if I deserved it.'
'You've never been wanting to me, Godfrey,' said Nancy, with
quiet sincerity. 'My only trouble would be gone if you resigned
yourself to the lot that's been given us.
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