Sensitive, shrinking from suffering and publicity, the man found in
Priscilla's companionship and confiding friendliness the deepest joy he
had known since his great loss. He wished that he was ninety, indeed, and
that his infirmity and wealth might secure for him this new interest that
had taken him out of himself and caused his sluggish senses to revive.
But he was not yet fifty. For all his handicaps he was still in fair
health, and the best that he could hope for was that Priscilla, among
her new duties, would remember him, come back to him, make his lonely
home a retreat and comfort when her arduous duties permitted.
Those last few days of freedom and companionship were beautiful to them
both. With pride and a certain complacency, Boswell saw that he had
somewhat formed and developed Priscilla's tastes and judgment. She was no
longer the ignorant girl she once had been. Music did not now move her to
tears and a kind of dumb suffering. She began to understand, to control
her emotions, and gain, through them, pleasure without pain.
"She laughs," Boswell thought, "more intelligently and discriminately
when she sees a good farce.
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