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BOOK VII.—THE MOTHER AND THE SON.
47
I gave you all your father's fortune. They can never accuse me of robbery there."
"If you had needed anything I would have worked for you," said Deronda, conscious of a disappointed yearning—a shutting out for ever from long early vistas of affectionate imagination.
"I need nothing that the skill of man can give me," said his mother, still holding his head, and perusing his features. "But perhaps now I have satisfied my father's will, your face will come instead of his—your young, loving face."
"But you will see me again?" said Deronda, anxiously.
"Yes—perhaps. Wait, wait. Leave me now."
