ittle
Florence changed into an uneasiness of an extraordinary kind. Young as
she was, and possessing in any eyes but his (and perhaps in his too)
even more than the usual amount of childish simplicity and confidence,
he almost felt as if she watched and distrusted him. As if she held the
clue to something secret in his breast, of the nature of which he
was hardly informed himself. As if she had an innate knowledge of one
jarring and discordant string within him, and her very breath could
sound it.

His feeling about the child had been negative from her birth. He had
never conceived an aversion to her: it had not been worth his while or
in his humour. She had never been a positively disagreeable object to
him. But now he was ill at ease about her. She troubled his peace. He
would have preferred to put her idea aside altogether, if he had known
how. Perhaps--who shall decide on such mysteries!--he was afraid that he
might come to hate her.

When little Florence timidly presented herself, Mr Dombey stopped in his
pacing up and down and looked towards her. Had he looked with greater
interest and with a father's eye, he might have read in her keen glance
the impulses and fears that made her waver; the passionate desire to run
clinging to him, crying, as she hid her face in his embrace, 'Oh father,
try to love me! there's no one else!' the dread of a repulse; the fear
of being too bold, and of offending him; the pitiable need in which she
stood of some assurance and encouragement; and how her overcharged young
heart was wandering to find some natural resting-place, for its sorrow
and affection.

But he saw nothing of this. He saw her pause irresolutely at the door
and look towards him; and he saw no more.

'Come in,' he said, 'come in: what is the child afraid of?'

She came in; and after glancing round her for a moment with an uncertain
air, stood pressing her small hands hard together, close within the
door.

'Come here, Florence,' said her father, coldly. 'Do you know who I am?'

'Yes, Papa.'

'Have you nothing to say to me?'

The tears that stood in her eyes as she raised them quickly to his face,
were frozen by the expression it wore. She looked down again, and put
out her trembling hand.

Mr Dombey took it loosely in his own, and stood looking down upon her
for a moment, as if he knew as little as the child, what to say or do.

'There! Be a good girl,' he said, patting her on the head, and regarding
her a